The Moon Does Smile
by Anonymous by Preference
Summary: Newlyweds Raoul and Christine go to a hotel in Perros-Guirec for their honeymoon. They've barely arrived, and for seemingly no reason, Raoul disappears. No one seems to remember seeing him or believe anything Christine says. In her desperate search to find him, her only hope and comfort is the occupant of Room 5. ALW/Leroux/Alfred Hitchcock
1. 1: One Love, One Lifetime

**Okay, a little sooner than I thought. But here I am! A new story! I own nothing and reserve no rights in writing this. In the past, if you are a follower, I have written mostly E/OC. Now, for a new kind of adventure. So here I bring you 'The Moon Does Smile.'**

**Most of the characters are written with the 2004 movie cast in mind, but I have pulled depictions and characters from other versions, including the 1990 TV drama and from Leroux's original cast. Whoever is your favorite Erik, Christine, Raoul, Meg, Etc., go with them. There's too much controversy over who's the best and better of the roles.**

**Short and a little simple. But the one way I deviate from this story, it doesn't center round the Opera Populaire. I did some research. And I will, to the best of my ability and imagination, to do justice to a culture and country I've never seen or experienced. And also I hope, to do justice to the characters, albeit, Webber's version. If you like Leroux's better, I can't win on that one. If you love the musical or movie, I can only hope. . .**

**If you see this changed, I combined the prologue and first chapter into one. Content, not so much.**

~Chapter One: One Love, One Lifetime~

Candles burned long into the night when his mother did not sleep at night. And she never slept well without his father. Descending the stairs on tiptoes, he discovered her by the window, in his chair. A half-read book lay across her lap. Her hair falling in an untidy mass of curls, with her head slumped against a side. Always appearing so sound, he would try to sneak passed her again and again, but in vain, only to wake her with his muted steps.

"Gustave, what are you doing up?" she moaned sleepily.

"The rain is so noisy, Mother," he yawned.

"Ah," she smiled. "That's all? Weren't heading for the kitchen, were you?"

"What for, Mother?" he shrugged innocently.

"Thinking of that unguarded cake in the cold box, I imagine."

The little grin to spread his cheek proved guilt. "Oh, Mother."

"Oh, Gustave," sighing dramatically. With his approach, the boy was engulfed in his mother's arms. Still young enough that a boy wouldn't mind, he allowed himself to be pulled up into her lap and pecked atop his head. But at six years, it was beginning to make him squirm. "You really shouldn't be up now. It's. . . goodness, ten-thirty."

The reflecting downpour in the window glistened off the clock atop the mantel. Combined with its gentle tick of the pendulum, the warmth of the low blaze, and constant hum against the windowpane, fighting sleep had been nearly impossible. Both the cat and dog had long since deserted. Likely, as the dog favored Christophe most, she had retired to his room with him. No doubt, the cat found a place to lounge near a window close to the front door. She would be the first to greet her returning master.

"Do you think Father will miss-?"

"Oh no, not to worry," she replied. "If we know him well, Gustave, he never forsakes my cakes."

"Especially the way we made it," he sniggered. "Extra chocolate. And that butter cream frosting. . ."

"Did you put the walnuts in?"

"Definitely. And the chocolate custard through the middle, that's my favorite-"

"Alright, you must stop, Gustave. You're making me hungry."

"You will save a piece, won't you? After you and Father have yours?"

"A piece as big as your stomach, of course."

". . . Can I at least stay up until he comes home?"

"No Gustave."

"But-"

"I promise, we'll save you a piece, darling," she assured. "It'll be there waiting in the cold box tomorrow. Now, go back to bed."

"Would you tell me a story first, please?" he begged. At his most desperate, he grasped for any reason to stay awake.

"Incorrigible," muttered his mother. "I'll humor you, darling, but it must be a short one. I'm very tired. What Breton tale would you like tonight?"

"You've told me all of them, Mother. Tell me a new one."

"None of them are new, I'm afraid. They're all that my father had told me."

"Well, could you think of another story?"

"Like what?" she giggled.

"Tell me about how you and Father met."

It would come. That!

His mother turned a shade whiter, contemplating, caught and afraid. It wasn't to be expected no child would be curious. Unlike other proud mothers and fathers, with love letters and preserved roses and lockets to show for trophies to their children, it was all a secret. Her bottom lip recoiled within, out which passed a sigh. And below, her son's eyes pleaded curiously.

"I could tell you, maybe," she mused aloud. "Another time, though."

"Why does it make you sad, Mother?"

"Sad? No, of course not," she chuckled, nervously. "I am not sad, Gustave. Your father has been the best thing that ever happened to me, to all of us."

"But you don't look happy."

_ Oh dear, too smart for your own good_, she reflected. "Not all of it is a happy memory, Gustave. In fact, there are so many things that happened long ago that still trouble me, from time to time. Sometimes, it's even painful to remember."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"One day, I'll tell you about it. And your father too, maybe. Give it time."

"Well, it doesn't matter. If it makes you hurt Mother, I'll never ask it again."

For at least the time being, he would hold to that promise. And within minutes, the boy's head lay unconscious against his mother, buried within her shoulder and a drapery of hair. Little did a sweet, innocent soul realize that his unoffending mind had the power to awaken the dead.

She could still remember with each of her senses: the shrill seagulls circling near the cliffs, the sunlight reflecting off the coral pink granite, how pungent the ocean air was in her nostrils and breathed in deeply, looking out from a balcony. Then, there were the rooms: always too warm, spotless, and lonely. And faces. . . Sneering faces, scowling, snickering, flattering faces. Faces.

_ You can't trust anyone. . ._

_ We cannot be seen together. . . _

_ Someone is watching us. I can't tell you now. . ._

_ Love me. . . That's all I ask of you. . ._

All these years, yet, the voice was still with her. It wasn't even years. Hardly. Sometimes, the present seemed like something dreamed. All because of him. He would always be with her.

* * *

_~7 Years Earlier~_

Perros-Guirec had been everything she remembered as a child. The new additions and changes in village life had not altered the splendors and charms of its simplicity. It was hardly like Paris. But its people did not lead humdrum lives staring out the windows of old-fashioned cottages, shopping the same bakeries, watching the same window display at the dressmakers for a whole month, neither awaiting drastic change or reluctant to embrace it. Driving through the heart of the town, it was a bustling, active force that propelled it.

"We're almost there, Little Lotte," assured Raoul. His gloved hands rest over hers, while the carriage maneuvered round bumps and irregular spots of the road.

For all the humble inns were passed by. Going down the dirt road, with green hill to the left and high-jutting rocks to the right, the surprise promised was something luxurious. While she had nothing in the world to ask for, it would've been bliss to spend their first week as newlyweds at the old cottage where they'd met years ago. But to begin the rest of their lives, nothing less would do for a vicomte and vicomtesse. Christine recognized the direction of the road, driving toward the strand that wrapped around Trestignel beach. The sun's setting rays cut across the outline of gray brick and red roof hotel. From afar, it beckoned to the soul like a home. For one thing, it appeared much smaller from far away. Stretching from its western walls were the tall bushes, hedges, and lanterns of a garden. For it was the first thing to catch the eye. Coming closer and closer, Christine already formed plans of dinner and strolls. Every night of their stay, she and Raoul would sit outside if it was warm enough. The moon and stars would be theirs alone, looking out over the sea from the white gazebo built jutting out over the cliff.

Once the vehicle came to a halt, Raoul jumped out first before assisting her out. His every move perfect and chivalrous, touching every girl's most romantic sensibilities. The porteur came out from the front door, lumbering toward their carriage and footman for the luggage. He treated them as nothing special, simply two more guests. There was no family crest on the coach, and by his preference, Raoul had engaged a hired carriage for their journey. Nobody would be able to recognize them. And for good reason, his dear brother would've suspected his intentions by taking one of the family's carriages out of Paris.

Christine's heels clicked loudly against the beige marble floors of the lobby. Palms and ficus decorated the entrance and corners, beautifully potted in matching marble vessels. Such splendor would make the common traveler shudder, to think what money could be spent in a single night. Just a week of this: marble floors, indoor plants, vaulted ceilings, and a gazebo! Christine still hadn't adjusted, in either mind or heart, with her new riches. Yesterday, he had been nothing more than her childhood friend. And just hours ago, he was now her husband. And she a wife. . . Mme. le Vicomtesse de Chagny!

"_Bonsoir, monsieur! Bonsoir, madame_!" cried an older gentleman. His arms went over his head, approaching the desk, with his cheeks full and flushed smiling. The hair, though glistening white, had been smoothed just exactly. A bit stocky in the center, he moved in slow steps. "_Bienvenue_! Welcome to Premier Jour d'été Hôtel! The name's Poligny, the hotel manager. Have you both had a pleasant journey?"

"It's only beginning, monsieur!" declared Raoul. "I've sent ahead for reservations."

"Ah yes, your name?"

"De Chagny."

"Just a moment, please."

Jittery and flying high upon clouds, Christine felt herself trembling. Her left arm completely locked and held tight in Raoul's own. Perhaps they could return again, every year for their anniversaries. For the first, the fifth, tenth, twenty-fifth, fiftieth, and however long 'they both shall live.'

"You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble," she protested, half-heartedly.

"Nonsense, Little Lotte. It's always my pleasure. And I shall take great pleasure spoiling you. This is better than Paris, isn't it?"

"Well, a secret wedding is not the ideal great beginning, but yes, I think you've compensated perfectly," she giggled.

While the friendly older man rifled the filing cubbies and drawers, the porteur finally managed the luggage, nearly doubled over in the task. Dressed in black suit and white-collared shirt, like the rest of the staff, he did not quite fit anything about the place. Neck and chin were bulging from the tight collar. A thick beard and mane of scraggily hair normally described the men of staff working for the inn and livery stations in town, not a first class hotel.

Standing there, saying nothing, staring straight at the couple, Christine shifted uncomfortably closer to her husband. He returned the man a look crossed between inquisitive and suspicion.

"We're just waiting for our key," said Raoul, clearing his throat. "He shouldn't be long."

The eyelids hardly moved, even to blink.

"Hope that's not a problem," he restated, more firmly. "We shouldn't take you from your duties long, I trust."

"You two staying long?" Hard as flint and icy cold, his voice nearly sent shivers down her spine.

"W-We're. . . going to be here for a week," said Christine, feeling the need to speak for herself.

"That's nice. . ."

Curious glances darted between the newlyweds.

"Just married?" asked the porteur.

"Yes," answered Christine, nodding.

". . . Too bad your sweetheart couldn't buy you a wedding ring."

"I beg your pardon?" Raoul's voice lowered, threateningly.

"Oh, we uh. . . It was just today. Very sudden-"

"Christine, there's no need to explain," whispered her husband. Turning her away, with their backs to him: "Pay him no mind, my dear. He doesn't deserve any explanations."

"Raoul? Should I. . . Should we have got a wedding ring? It must not look good to come here and take a room if we look unmarried."

"Hardly. He's just a servant here. It's none of his business," he chided. "And we are married. No one will think badly, not to look at us."

"You suppose so?"

"Well, if they don't trust the looks of me, they should trust the looks of you," he replied, pecking the tip of her nose. "It is a shame we had no time for that. But not to worry, Little Lotte. Tomorrow, we'll go into town, and I'll get you an official band there."

"That will be lovely. So long as you let me get you-"

Christine's sentence was cut short with an exasperated grumble from the older man. Twice, he'd removed his monocle and wiped it with his handkerchief.

"Bah! Where is that blasted letter? Beg your pardon, monsieur. I can never find anything in here. Madame, the housekeeper, never keeps anything in order here," he complained, excused himself. In truth, the front desk was most tidy and exemplary. Searching for Raoul's letter, he'd tossed random papers and files out of the cabinets and onto the open desk. Those narrow, wrinkle-creased eyes squinted hard and frustrated.

"I believe, monsieur," Raoul suggested, "that I sent you my telegram on the fourth."

"W-Wha?"

"_The fourth_," Raoul pronounced more loudly. Eyesight was not the man's only disability.

"Of this month?"

"Yes, monsieur. Would it be in that one?" Pointing from across, M. Poligny struggled to read the small fonts in each cubby hole. But somehow, from Raoul's direction, he'd found the correct place.

"Ah-ha!" he chuckled. "Silly me! Raoul de Chagny?"

"That's it!"

"One room for two. Now the uh. . . uh. . . reservation book." Then, there began a three minute search. Apparently, the housekeeper was off duty or attending to other affairs. The poor man should not have been occupied at the front desk otherwise. The phone rang once, but he did not hear it, thinking for a moment it was simply a ringing in his ear. All the while, the porteur simply stood dumbly a few feet behind them. That same stony expression in his eyes.

"Silly me! Here it is, ah," rambled the manager. "Sign here, monsieur."

Neither of them made a comment, nor even betrayed the slightest look of impatience. While Raoul dipped the ink for signing, Christine was drawn to the side, toward a board of hooks and hung keys.

"Here is your room key, madame. Room ten. . ." The smile stiffened for a second, as his eyes caught sight of Buquet in the distance. Surprisingly enough, the man could see that distance. "Buquet, what do you do standing around like an idiot? Go take those upstairs. _Up_ the stairs."

"I don't know what room," he snapped.

"Room number ten," hissed the manager. "The door with the one and the zero on it. You think you can manage? I'm sorry about that, madame, monsieur. Buquet's no good. Would be a worthless man if he couldn't carry double his weight up a flight of stairs. He'll ah. . . show you to your room. You forgive me. I cannot climb those anymore."

"Thank you, M. Poligny. We'll manage just fine with the porteur. Thank you," nodded Raoul, evening his volume. Nearing the hour for dinner, there was little activity, no one going up or coming down the stairs. The only one they passed was a middle-aged man with a wiry mustache, looking too glum and alone. He muttered some command at M. Buquet, causing the man to roll his eyes and curse under his breath.

"This place is beautiful," declared Christine, ignoring the ugly exchange. "I hope you did not spend too much-"

"Oh, Christine enough. No talk of that," Raoul silenced her. "You really must stop asking about expenses, my dear. Trust me, for what I could do and could buy, this is rather tasteful."

"It's delightful! And right next to the beach!" she squealed, enchanted. "Could we go for swims like we used to long ago?"

"Tomorrow, I'll race you out to des Sept-Îles and back. Just after we get you your ring in town."

"Raoul!"

"And we'll head down to Ploumanac'h. I'll commandeer us a little sailboat. You'd like that, wouldn't you? We'll go late in the evening, around dusk. We'll do our dining just out beyond the surf. Close enough to the harbor, where we can have all the lights. And a bottle of champagne."

"And will you sing?" she begged. "Please?"

"Sing? Sing what?" he teased.

"You know - that song you sang when you proposed?"

They were up the stairs, lingering some distance behind the porteur.

"Oh come now, don't make me sing," he pleaded. "Really Christine, a man like me? It does not compare with you, who has been on the stage in Paris. I was not born to sing. Not like you. No, I'd much rather you sing for me."

"But I loved it."

"Did you really? You love my voice? Does it just make you swoon?" he baited. It only accentuate her blush, and her laughter. On an impulsive whim, he'd bent down and snatched her feet from the floor and cradled her in his arms. So swift, he caused her to shriek out loud. "Do I just sweep you off your feet? _AND SAY. . . YOU'LL. . . SHARE WITH ME ONE LOVE. . . ONE LIFETIME. . ._" Incorrigible and unashamed, Christine's head rolled back, her body shaking fitfully. "_SAY. . . THE WORD AND I WILL FOLLOW YOU. . . SHARE. . . EACH. . . DAY WITH ME EACH NIGHT. . . EACH. . . MORNING. . . !_"

For the whole remainder of the walk and into the room, he sang at the top of his voice. Remembering the porteur, Christine's eyes lowered humbly. Thankfully, it was only six-thirty in the evening. Any later, she'd have worried his bravado would wake other guests.

"Oh, good evening!" gasped a maid.

A short and tiny frame of a woman whirled around. She stepped away from the vanity, where a glass vase displayed a proud, glowing bouquet before the vanity mirror. Roses and lilies made the room sweet and heady by its fragrance. To the left, velvet green drapes swayed in the open doors, looking out over the balcony. They looked over the tops of a couple violet heads of jacarandas, and a rocky coastline going dark.

"Everything has been arranged as you ordered, monsieur," said the maid, more of a bounce of the knee than a curtsey. A rather young, dark-haired creature, and she glowed out of her smile, all too glad to please.

"Oh Raoul," sighed Christine. Not forgetting the maid: "Thank you so much. It looks wonderful!"

"If you require anything else, you may ring for us."

"How long until dinner, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"The dining room opens at seven, and we shall be serving until eleven o'clock. Tonight on duty, we have the valet, Jean-Claude. And if you require anything, madame, ask for Meg Giry."

"Thank you." Depositing a tip in her hand, the maid and porteur were dismissed.

As soon as the door closed behind, Christine cast a scolding with a narrowed eye, but a smile bared. "You, you ought to know better than do that," she remarked. To which, he only laughed heartily. "What a spectacle! Everyone will think you mad."

"Oh, but I am mad. Mad, out of my senses in love with you," he grinned. The hands circling her waist provoked her to a gasping, helpless laugh the way his fingers dug in, tickling. He prolonged his method of torture until she appeased him with a kiss to the lips. "Alright, enough of that. Now, we go to supper!"

"Should I change first?" she questioned. At seeing him slip off his coat, tossing it to the bed, it seemed it would only be natural of her to do so as well.

"Nonsense. You're just fine. I'd just like to freshen up first. But you may go down, find us any table you like. Some tables look right out over the water."

"Sounds divine."

Undoing her hair and smoothing her locks of hair, both of them noted sounds from out in the corridor. It seemed to be coming from the same floor. . . Music. Christine did not recognize it as anything familiar. Its tone was not as one who had practiced, but passionate. And the player of this haunting melody would seem to be, by the forte of its volume, thoroughly engrossed.

"What on earth?" mumbled Raoul. "Who's playing that?"

"Sounds like the piano," discerned Christine.

"In a hotel?"

"Maybe it's from the dining room downstairs."

"Whoever he is, does he need to play so loudly?"

"It sounds. . . beautiful."

"Well, far be it from me to argue, Little Lotte," he said, with a playful roll of the eyes.

Having composed herself from the distraction, a brief summation was made in the full-length mirror across from the bed. Having removed the hat and the white leather jacket, she did not see much need in changing for dinner. It would've been a delight to arrive and go down to dinner still dressed in glowing bridal white. But it wasn't a grand affair. Elopement involved discretion, less frill and more practicality. The pink muslin would do, but of course, there was nothing now to make her care, so long as Raoul liked it.

"I shan't be long," he promised.

"Please hurry."

* * *

Alone and without her husband at her side, Christine walked displaced into an imposing atmosphere. Waiters practically dancing from table to table, and she weaved passed them as best she could, trying not to interfere. More guests were coming in, taking their preferred tables. At least, one table had been left unoccupied in the northeast corner.

No table placements had been laid yet, until a waiter spotted her and immediately provided the necessary napkin and silverware. Sadly, the music that had so enchanted her above had dwindled. Perhaps someone had quieted the musician. Indeed, it would be strange, unless the piano were downstairs in a public room, for a hotel to keep one. Replacing it came the monotonous murmur of dinner conversations.

Every table had been dressed the same: white tablecloth, a small vase of flowers, a pair of lit candlesticks, and scarlet upholstery on the chairs arranged in twos and fours. Towards the middle of the room, a couple was seated and causing a great fuss with the waiters. They were both served a glass of sherry. He looked as though he come straight from the office, in scuffed loafers and a faded gray suit. The lady, a wife of several years, clad herself in a black silk with white lace trim about the décolletage. Her shoulders bared. Her jewels, dripping from the ears and draped across her neck, ostentatious to say the least. Poor man. How sweetly he talked to her and flattered her, only to be smiled or retorted at in return. "Darling, you wouldn't lie to me, would you?" she cooed.

Slightly put off, the eyes then averted toward a nearby table with two couples: two husbands and their wives. The men rambled with themselves, while the women were engrossed in their own nonsense. Words such as 'contract,' 'orchestra,' and 'salon' and 'theater' frequently emerged. It could easily be deduced that the men were probably partners in the music industry, in one way or another. Like the single couple, Christine lost interest in them quickly, despite the topic of music. Gossip seemed to be an undercurrent of the small talk.

As extension of their party, two young girls were seated at a neighboring table. Both had been dressed and made up by a servant, most obviously. The blond curly wore her hair pinned up atop her head, with some strands left to dangle. The dark-haired had been done half-way up, while the rest fell straight. How bored and miserable they looked devouring the bread basket, wishing they were anyplace else in the world.

Closer to the kitchen, Christine observed two men of very distant origin. Perhaps Africa or India, around there. The skin of both was dark, a tawny brown. Yet, their clothing did not maintain that country. It was a suit, waistcoat, necktie, and collared shirt: just like any native European. They sipped on a dark decanter. Nervous tension in both their eyes, and in one, the older of the two, the exhausted, pained expression caused by a headache. He would've rather been in bed.

All in all, they did not seem a sorry lot. In fact, each one at each of their tables could boast a certain measure of contentment. A possession that had completely eluded her.

"What's so special about today?"

Snapped from a momentary daze, a woman's voice sounded toward her. Indeed, a woman. A very beautiful woman. Unlike the others, she'd seated and slumped against the high counter. Christine might've called herself comparably plump if stood next to this red-clad figure. Beneath the silk and taffeta was practically a skeleton. From the bat of the lash and the slight purse of the lip, tugging sideways, her interest was certainly piqued.

"Beg your pardon?" asked Christine.

"You're quite aflutter," observed the woman. It was a cool, deep voice. If she sang, she'd have been a mezzo or even a contralto. "What's so special about today to make you so?"

"I'm just waiting for my husband to come down," answered Christine, offering a little smile.

"Really? Just married?" she deduced. "How marvelous! Well, I was going to be charitable, but if you're not alone, then I won't interfere."

"Are you alone tonight?"

"It's no matter," she shrugged casually, brushing it off. "But I don't need much company. Don't care for much anyway. Mind if I join you until he comes."

"Of course."  
Smiling, the woman threw her head back gracefully, throwing a wink to one of the young waiters. It produced a tall bottle of wine at the table. He poured for the both of them before leaving the whole thing behind in an ice bucket. Not knowing wines, Christine accepted it based on good manners and its pretty contents. A bubbling pink and flowery scent, sweetened with a peach flavor and soured by a tinge of raspberry.

"Just the thing, isn't it?" replied the woman.

"It's very good," agreed Christine.

"From the Alsace-Lorraine region. That land produces the best wine grape in France."

"You know wine?"

"I know a good many things. What's your name?"

"Christine D. . . de Chagny."

The woman chuckled. "Still getting used to it?"

"I couldn't even spell it before, and now it's mine, I'll have to. . . What's your name?"

"The name's Hamilton. _Miss _Hamilton, in case you're curious."

"Hamilton?" she repeated. "But you have an accent."

"I do? Well, I must, after all, I am a Frenchwoman. It's Isadora Hamilton," she admitted, with a sip of her drink in between, and a quirk of the brow. "French born. American grown."

"America? Really!"

"I must not look like a tourist. But that's just the sum of it. Just traveling abroad."

"But you know France well?"

"Of course. I've been traveling since I was little. But that's not an interesting story. An unmarried woman never has an interesting story. Married women do, though. What about you?"

"Well. . . I am just married. Today, in fact. My husband and I are staying on a week here."

"This is the place for it," she nodded. "Of course, for a honeymoon, the south of France is more preferable. But there is still plenty of beauty to be seen here in Perros-Guirec. If you like old landmarks and sailing, this is the place."

"Oh, I know. I've spent a good deal of my childhood here. In fact, when I first met my husband, it was here as children."

"Isn't that adorable?" she crooned.

"I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts," said Christine, blushing.

"I think those marriages are the best, when the first acquaintance is while children. Children don't care about those things for many years. You see the whole process, the growing up, from the boy to the man. Then you know what you're in for," she retorted. "If these poor souls," gesturing behind with a flick of the wrist, a twitch of the fan, "knew what their spouses from childhood, they'd have spared themselves a lot of agony. Take that couple over there."

Christine's eyes followed the motion of her sharp green eye. It was the worn-looking husband with the simpering, overdressed wife.

"They're not happy, but they keep up appearances," she confirmed.

"Do you know them?"

"No. Not a soul. But in passing, you meet people. Her name's Carlotta Guidicelli. Ah yes, the Italian singer. That's her."

"I hardly recognize her," gasped Christine, shaking her head. "I'd seen a production poster in Paris not long ago."

"She withdrew, or temporarily 'retired', from the theater for a while."

"I did hear rumors that she'd be coming out again. Just never expected it anytime soon. The woman's a fixture of the Opera Populaire. . . I've been in the theater, so I know some about singers and such."

This intrigued the already captivated American all the more. "Well, I doubt if she has much to return to; the woman's in recession. The waistline is filling out a little more than it should. That's some heavy rouge on her cheeks; she's not young and rosy anymore. And the wrinkles are showing. . . I sound harsh, don't I?"

"So that must be the man Choleti, her husband," guessed Christine. By the furrow of brow and frown, the other woman could guess the thought.

"I know. For a woman who's starred in famous roles and been hailed the greatest and most romantic actress of the arts, why _him_?"

"Perhaps she likes his mellow demeanor, and the way he smiles." Optimistic, but even a stretch for her.

"Perhaps she likes his bank account," concluded Isadora, brow raised.

"I think money only goes so far," said Christine, as if to reassure herself. _That would never happen to Raoul and I_, she resolved. "It's nice to have it, but it won't add or take from the relationship."

"Oh, good heavens! I'm talking to a philosopher," grumbled the woman. "Well, I won't enter into that argument with you. On top of that, you're newly married. Love is everything. Have it your way then," feigning a pout. "But not me. I have my opinions. You have yours."

"So. . . If I may ask, why are you traveling?" mused Christine. And hoping to be playful, just as the woman was herself, she dared: "Running away or mending a broken heart?"

"When Americans come to Europe, they entertain great expectations. And a woman traveling alone, she is in search of a grand position."

". . . I must be in the company of an adventuress," chuckled Christine.

"It's not all about money. I do have money back home, but not riches. And to be rich in America is much different than it is to be rich in Europe. Back home, I'd be called an heiress. Over here, I am bourgeois. You know what I mean? The hotels, the resorts, the lodges, the villas: that's where you find them. . . Well, well, my search may be over."

Her red hair, almost rose red in shade, bounced over her shoulders and down the front. A fine-looking, debonair gentleman took a seat several tables away from them. He not smile, but it was more that his thoughts consumed him. For a second, Christine even pitied the poor man to catch this woman's eye. An amusing companion she made, but ruthless. The eyes narrow like a leopard. A smile like a wolf. But unlike most of her kind, who are generally offensive, there was no deceit about it. Christine caught herself laughing softly, shaking her head at the brazen vixen. Indeed, with a beautiful pelt and starving underneath, the drive was animal.

"Now there's a prize," purred Isadora. "Le Baron Barbazac."

The light hair, medium-height but thick build revealed his German identity as much as his own name.

"If I were still an unmarried girl in Paris, my guardian would highly disapprove of my hearing you talk," simpered Christine.

"I've had my eye on him for the last three days, but I'm starting to give up on him. He's a sulky sort. I'll wager _he's the one _running away from a heartbreak."

"Who are the two couples at that table? Of all here, they're the most interesting."

"Oh, them? A MM. & Mmes. Richard Firman and Giles Andre, and their children at one next to them. What's so fascinating about them?"

"They run the Opera Populaire in Paris. I. . . I met them a couple years ago when I was trying to audition for that theater."

"So what theater were you at in the city?"

"The Théâtre de la Gaîté-Montparnasse."

"Would you consider trying out again?"

"I don't know. Now being married has changed some priorities. Whether I'll return to the theater or not, I can't say."

"What did you do?"

"I was a member of the chorus."

"You've got good background."

"But I haven't been well-taught," Christine humbly acknowledged. "I used to take lessons, but my singing coach died several years ago. Lessons are usually expensive. He was kind, so he didn't take a large fee."

"I wouldn't throw in the towel altogether. Not that I have any experience in the musical field, but you need to bother the right people. Beg them and pester them for the roles you want, you'll get what you want. And I can tell by looking at you, you're not a pest. You're as shy and demure as a deer."

Truth. It was, for Christine wasn't the thing and wasn't the kind to go and get. It wasn't a mission in life to get everything that she wanted. Some tried to live by that principle; apparently, it was the dream of Miss Hamilton. And Christine could've taken offense at such a remark. Then, once again, there was that playing, a piano's voice thundering over their heads.

"Now up there," said Isadora, "now that one upstairs is quite a mystery."

"Who?"

"The man staying in room five. Never talked to him; never have seen anybody speak to him. Never down here socializing with anybody. Those two Persian men over there know him. I think he's a musician."

"It's beautiful, well, entrancing. . ."

"I daresay. And he's not so bad a catch himself, or so I've been led to believe."

"Where's the music coming from though? Is it his room?"

"The piano is in room eleven. M. Debienne, one of the hotel managers, told me that it used to be a bedroom, but since this hotel became a retreat in town and throughout the country for many musicians and composers, people trying to get into the music industry, they moved the piano from down here to upstairs for the artists to keep to themselves. Fascinating history this place, and by far, my favorite of most places I've stayed."

"I wouldn't disagree with you, but I am partial to Perros," nodded Christine. "And don't think I mean to be rude, but if you would excuse me, I think I'll go and find my husband. Don't know what would take him so long."

"Should never let a man out of your sight," she chided teasingly. "Go on, go on. I'm sure he's ten times more fascinating that I am now."

It wasn't so much as that as that she simply had her fill of teasing and the degradation of marriage from one who knew nothing about the institution. Christine passed a few on her way up, others also going down to dinner. Hopefully, the woman will have excused herself by then. Coming to the door, however, she found it locked.

"Raoul? Raoul, are you ready?" she asked simply. Giving another knock, there came no answer. A second and a third. Still nothing.

"Excuse me, monsieur? M. Jean-Claude?"

"Just Jean-Claude," corrected the man. An older, kindly-faced man. "Can I help you, miss?"

"Do you have a spare key for this room?"

"Of course."

How Raoul could not hear her seemed peculiar. But it wasn't until the door unlocked and opened, a chill traveled through her spine. It wasn't peculiar. It was wrong. Something was wrong.

The flowers and flower vase were gone.

Her two trunks still sat at the end of the bed, but not his. They were gone.

Raoul, nowhere to be seen.

"Is something wrong, mademoiselle?" the man inquired.

". . . Where are my husband's things?"

"Your husband?"

"Yes. Did anybody come out of the room?"

"No, mademoiselle. I saw no one. I've been tidying up the bathroom this whole time; I've not seen anyone."

"But where are his things? He had a trunk. . . and his coat. He threw it on the bed. It's gone too. A-and the flowers."

"What flowers?"

"There was a vase of flowers here, o-on the vanity," she explained, a stammer growing. "W-What's going on? This is our room?"

"I don't understand." He was shaking his head ignorantly. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd come alone. This _is _your room."

"But. . . The maid-The maid, I think her names is Jammes. She was the one arranging them when we came in together."

"I shall ask her."

Stepping out, he turned to his left, bidding the girl from somewhere. And out of nowhere, the girl materialized. The look, the very expression of the eyes, Christine couldn't believe it. It would seem as though they never saw each other before.

"Can I be of service, mademoiselle?" she asked.

Mademoiselle! She calls me mademoiselle, Christine puzzled. "N-no, it's. . . madame. Miss Jammes, tell me, have you seen my husband?"

"Your husband?"

"Yes!" cried with a little impatience. "My husband. The man who carried me into this room. You were doing up the flowers on the vanity. They're gone. My husband's luggage is gone. Have you seen him?"

"What is going on?" she mumbled. Those dark eyes darted curiously between the man and herself. "I don't understand."

"Have you seen him?"

"Jean-Claude. Why does she say that?" insisted Little Jammes. "There. . . There was no one else."

"What do you mean?"

"She-She came alone. . . Mademoiselle, you came alone. . ."

The piano coming from that nearby room still played, now thundering away.

**Well, what do you think so far? Your input will be most encouraging. But I'm not going to promise by the day/by the week on schedule for the updates. I won't drag you out for months before updating, but will do my reasonable best. Thank you for coming back to give this a chance.**


	2. 2: Madame, Not Mademoiselle

**Thank you for your support, reviews, and following. I'm back and hopefully not to disappoint.**

~Chapter Two: Madame, Not Mademoiselle~

"_Are you daft_!"

It had quite surprised herself; for never in her life had Christine used such words to anyone, and in the heat of anger. The maid standing at the door looked rattled, and the valet, all the more perplexed. While the one could very well be innocent and ignorant, she had seen them both. She had seen him. She had called them madame and monsieur. Clearly, the relationship of the two was known to her.

"I. . . Beg your pardon, but-there must be some mistake. You saw us both."

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle. But I never-"

"You were here, in this room. Not even an hour ago. . ." Her heartbeat began to accelerate, her palms clamming up with perspiration. "May I see the manager, if you please?"

"Which one of them?" asked Jean-Claude. "We have two owners living here. MM. Debienne and Poligny."

"Poligny!" gasped Christine. "Yes. He was the one that signed us in and gave us the key."

"Why would M. Poligny have signed you in? He doesn't usually work the front desk," he said, turning an inquisitive glance at the maid. "Well, do come with me, mademoiselle. I'll see Mme. Giry and get to the bottom of this."

Of the two, it would seem he acted the most genuine, the most helpful. Christine briskly passed by the maid. A half of her seething, the other half fighting a burst of tears. _It can't be a mistake! Why would she? Why would she lie about it? _she mused. So anxious was she going all the way down, she resisted the urge to dart ahead of the valet toward the front desk. An older, tall woman now stood at her post. The chaos that M. Poligny had thrown her work station into earlier was being tidied again.

"Mme. Giry," Jean-Claude announced, "if you would please help this young lady."

"What can I help you with, mademoiselle?" the housekeeper's inflection cold.

"I am looking for my husband, madame," explained Christine. "We're in room number ten. His luggage and personal belongings are all missing."

"All your luggage?"

"No, only his," she said, shaking her head. "And there was a vase of flowers he had arranged as we checked in. They're gone too."

"Well. . . are you sure it's room ten that's yours?" she put simply. "You've not gone to the wrong room."

"We were attended by a maid, a Mlle. Jammes, and she denies ever seeing him."

A spark of life came to her brown eyes, completely removing her mind from the papers in hand. "Jean-Claude, have you seen the man?"

"No, madame."

"What is your husband's name?"

"Raoul de Chagny." All this was doing little to ease her racing pulses, the beats, and now, rising temperature. Nerves had turned the air stifling, unbearably warm. Christine's breath even held, stilled, as the housekeeper reached for the guest book.

"Well?" asked Jean-Claude.

"There is no Raoul de Chagny staying here."

"What!" gasped Christine.

"I see an entry at 6:45," she noted. "Christine Daaé. That is you, is it not?"

"Yes."

"There's no Raoul de Chagny."

"I don't think so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It wouldn't be Daaé. It would be de Chagny."

"See for yourself," she said. Turning and sliding the book round the desktop, the truth was proved. Indeed, her name was there, and her handwriting too.

"But I did not sign, madame. He did, for the both of us!" refuted Christine. "I saw myself. He signed for the both of us, with his name, de Chagny."

"Was someone here to check you into your room?"

"M. Poligny apparently," answered Jean-Claude.

The woman's eyes rolled. "That man! I told him I don't like him rifling round my desk. That's why I have such a mess here. Where is he?"

"He and M. Debienne are in the dining room."

"What about the porteur?" suggested Christine. "What about the man that took up our luggage? He would surely remember us."

But there was nothing sure about it now. Christine swallowed hard, thinking of the maid; in spite of all that she'd said and done, she did not recall or. . . refused to acknowledge Raoul's existence. Watching helplessly, Mme. Giry picked up the hotel phone from the switchboard. In firm, authoritative tone, demanded for Joseph Buquet to come to the lobby at once.

"He did, I remember, send a telegram about our reservation," recalled Christine. "Where is it? It must be on file."

"I can but check," she replied. But now it would seem, searching the stacks of papers, rifling through the cubbyholes, perusing the drawers, madame clearly entertained doubts. The temperature of the room suddenly dropped.

"Ah, here he is, mademoiselle," declared Jean-Claude. "Joseph, do you recall showing this young lady up to room ten? and taking up her luggage?"

"And my husband's?" Christine interjected. "My husband gave you a tip too. Have you seen him since then?"

Those strange, glaring eyes scarcely moved inside his head. Whether or not he ever did blink, it was difficult to tell. "Who?" he uttered.

"My husband? Raoul de Chagny."

". . . I don't know any man-"

"Oh come, please!" begged Christine. "You saw him yourself! Don't joke, please. Tell me where he is!"

"Do calm yourself, miss," entreated Jean-Claude.

"Keep calm? What is going on here? How come no one can remember my own husband?"

"You were alone, mademoiselle," said Buquet.

"No!"

"She was alone, Mme. Giry. God as my judge, she came alone. She came with only two trunks. I showed her up to room ten. Those same trunks are still in room ten."

Finally, the heart sprung a leak. "That's a lie!" cried Christine. "This is-"

"This won't do anyone any good, Miss Daaé," insisted Mme. Giry. Coming around from behind, she reached out with a motherly hand. But the face, her pale and high cheekbones, did not show the same courtesy. "I shall bring M. Poligny myself-"

"You needn't trouble yourself, madame," asserted Christine. "I shall go and see him for myself, if you don't mind."

An older man with an establishment to maintain and a reputation worth protecting would not dare contradict his own customer, his guest. Of course, something else she had not counted on, unlike the others, he was advanced in years. Approaching the table, making the same inquiries and same explanations, the results were just as devastating.

"I remember you, but not a man with you. Ah, Buquet, yes, I remember him. He showed you your room-"

"Please, monsieur, I beg you. Try to remember," groaned Christine. All involved parties were half-circling the table. And in the background, an audience was forming. Curious onlookers couldn't help overhearing as the young woman repeated the same arguments and words, again and again.

"There were only three of us in the lobby," he answered. "You, me, and the porteur."

It didn't help either that the man, barely able to hear himself, was nearly shouting every sentence through the whole dining room. M. Debienne rolled his eyes hopelessly, perhaps sympathetic but incredulous.

"You must forgive my partner," responded the older gentleman across. "His hearing has been fading for years, and the doctors say he's developing macular degeneration."

". . . This is not happening," breathed Christine.

"Perhaps you might wish to return to your room, mademoiselle," suggested Mme. Giry, holding the girl's shoulders from behind. "You've had a long journey-"

"This is impossible! What all are you trying to hide?" demanded Christine.

M. Debienne rose from his chair at this point, a shorter and stockier stature than Poligny. "Miss Daaé-"

"It's de Chagny, for the last time! _Madame _de Chagny!"

This is useless! They're not mistaken; they're lying! All of them!

His luggage, gone. His jacket, his toiletries, gone.

Someone had wiped his name out of the guestbook.

Not a single witness.

No marriage certificate. No ring.

Nothing. . . No one.

Instead of returning to her room, as the staff had hoped, Christine started with room number four and worked on. Most of the guests were already downstairs ready to dine, but it didn't weaken the resolve nor intensity of her quest. He had sung, and sung loudly, coming up the stairs and carrying her across the threshold. Someone must've heard him.

A lone gentleman opened at number four, having ordered supper in his room. He heard no one and saw no man from room ten. Number five and six were vacant at the moment. Number seven was merely a bathroom, and unoccupied. As it consisted of a few wide and spacious cupboards, Christine hoped to eliminate the possibility. Should any dubious members of the staff attempt to hide his luggage, this would've been a place they could manage that. But opening all the cabinets, there was nothing inside but bath towels, washcloths, soaps, shampoos, brushes, and trivial etcetera items. All was neatly folded and arranged.

There it came again! Music. Instead of beauty, this time, it only worsened the growing chasm within her. Those blaring, angry chords of earlier that everyone heard had eased. His hands, if they were a man's hands, breathed a lilting, slow melody. While it did not stop the wild carousel of the thoughts and imagination, Christine breathed more slowly. And the breaths deepened the more she drew in through her nose. A lump of pain, however, had gathered at the back of her throat. Tears were not far, and couldn't be fought off for long.

Continuing on her way, Christine went to the other doors: seven, eight, nine. . . At ten, she went back in, finding everything still just as it was a few minutes ago. She nearly resorted to calling Raoul's name inside, and out into the corridor. Coming to room eleven, just across the hall from her own, there were a pair of sliding doors. It shouldn't have been a locking door, but it couldn't be opened with any strength of her hand. Upon knocking, the music inside had ceased. Yet, no one moved to answer. They didn't even care to call out. Her second round of knocking, still, no one responded. Sick at heart and in the stomach, her third round of knocking didn't relent to any silence.

"What do you want!" growled a man from inside.

"Please, open the door, monsieur!" demanded Christine. "I must see inside the room. It's very important!"

"You were told I was not to be disturbed!"

"I'm looking for my husband! Is he in there?"

Standing there, wondering if she should wait, her lungs heaved for breath. Both hands wringing together. _When this day began, I thought it all a dream,_ she mused. _Now, it's all a nightmare! This isn't real! It can't be!_ And then to think, she might go from door to door, see every hotel guest that evening, speak to every employee, and not find him. . .

The two doors swung open, wielded by a broad-shoulder, tall man. His imposing, unfriendly countenance daunting her none.

"Are you alone? Is he in here?" she muttered tearfully. Her skirts breezed passed him, brushing rudely beyond him. While a finely decorated and elegant situation, with its west and south-facing windows, numerous flower vases, and beautiful hung artwork, he was honestly alone. Scores of music, collecting on top, on the stand, on the bench, and below the piano, had to be all his own. Otherwise, there were no extra doors, no cabinets, no place that would hide another person or their belongings.

The shoulders sagged dejected, and her vision quickly blurring.

"Oh Raoul, where are you?" she whispered.

"You are. . . looking for your husband?"

It would seem as if it were a completely different voice, the very opposite of the one she had heard behind the closed door. Christine turned back to where he was still standing. His features had acquired a softness, an unassuming way. His eyes, suddenly intent and drawn. His face. . . And it was then, that she actually saw the mask. Blinking away some of the moisture, Christine was not deceived. The man wore a mask. A white mask. And such a strange mask, covering only the right half of his face.

"Y-Yes," she sighed. "I. . . I don't know what to do. I. . . You've not seen him, have you?"

". . . Have you," he cleared his throat, "just arrived?"

"About an hour ago, yes," she nodded. It was helping, clearing her eyes. But as the tears were welled and thickening, she was already sniffling.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I've seen him. . . I have been here for several hours. What is your name?" A strange question, for the time being. Instead of asking his name, the man whom everyone was curious to know if there was one, he asked her name.

"M-My name?"

"Yes."

". . . My name's Christine d-de Chagny."

"And you've been asking around with everyone?" he inquired modestly.

"Yes. But. . . It's not that I can't find him, but they all. . . all of them think I came here alone. . . No one knows and no one will tell me-"

Having come so far, and repeated it all over again, tears finally caught up. Into her hands, her face fell. Her body trembling from the sobs.

"It can't be as bad as all that," he said uncomfortably. "Have you a handkerchief?"

In her lack of one, he'd pulled her hands away to offer his own. A gesture that she had appreciated after the last hour she'd endured. Unfortunately, she was no more closer to finding Raoul, regardless if this man believed or did not believe.

"Can I be of any help?" persisted the stranger.

It would seem everyone-everyone else-made this all feel like some terrible dream. But he, a cool and distant yet kindly face, was a figure from a dream looking at her through the clouds. Those striking eyes and that obscure, oblique mask-gazing straight through-wakened her from bewilderment. This was really happening. No one could help. No one would help her. No one could care less. He's missing.

All the more reason, then, to find him. With a hasty, wordless departure, Christine's attention climbed the stairs to the rest of the rooms. Each one sounded hallow inside; her every knock echoing. They were all downstairs at dinner, or so it would seem. _Who would be inside? Are there people inside one of these rooms? Why do they hide? What have they done to him?_ burdened her suspicions. _Please, be alive. Be safe, wherever you are, darling. . ._

Only one actually heard her knocking.

"Oh, if you would please, do me a favor?"

She'd not encountered this maid as of yet. A new face, a new prospect.

"How can I be of service, mademoiselle?" she asked.

"Are all of these rooms occupied?"

"Not these two," she said. "This one and the one across. Why?"

"I'm looking for my husband. I haven't been able to find him anywhere."

"Well, no one has been in these rooms, madame," she corrected herself. "I've just been making them up. These two guests had left earlier this afternoon."

"Could I see inside?"

No, it wasn't a question. Less than politely pushed aside, Christine was bitterly unsatisfied with a similar replica of her own room. It still smelled of its previous visitors: stale coffee and orange peel left on a tray beside the bed. Halfway through with her cleaning, the bed sheets had been stripped, yet to be replaced and made up again. And the man, whoever he was, had forgotten his brown bowler hat, stuck up in the corner of the top shelf of the open closet.

Christine hardly realized her hands were still wringing. Now fearing worse things, a desperate thought had her kneeling down before the foot of the bed, pulling up the bed skirt. It hardly occurred to her how ridiculous it would seem.

"I'm sorry. I. . ." The maid at a complete loss. "Can I help at all? Are you sure he would be up here?"

"I know this may be unorthodox," Christine justified. She'd yanked back the door of the closet. "But I need to see the other room, if you please."

"I've just been in the other room-"

"No, no, I want to see inside myself," demanded Christine. "Understand. I cannot find him anywhere else."

Her voice had risen to a maddened height, bordering precariously near hysterical. For she must've appeared just as she sounded. Crossing from one threshold to another, she put forth the greatest effort to maintain her appearance before this other person. Given enough time, gone would be any chance of earning this girl's faith. But once again, there was neither anything or anyone behind door #20. The scene was as bare and void of life as #19.

"Perhaps you ought to see the manager?" suggested the maid.

"I've been to see him, M. Poligny. Nobody has seen him. There is no record of him checking us in."

"But my mother checks in all the guests. Surely, she would know-"

"Your mother?"

"Yes, my mother is the housekeeper. She keeps the front desk downstairs. The name's Meg Giry."

"Miss Giry, will you please be so kind, and ask your mother or the managers for permission that I may search the rest of the rooms here."

"But I can't do that, madame."

"Ask her. It's very important that-"

"Is everything alright?" came the voice of a third.

Young Miss Giry looked complete surprise to see this guest out and about. Either having heard the commotion or having been disturbed, he'd followed. Christine blushed to be met with him again. His soiled handkerchief was still clutched tight in her grasp.

"Madame is uh. . . looking for her husband," explained Meg. "Have you seen him?"

"No, I have not," he replied simply. Though unfriendly, his glare and tones weren't marked by hostility. In fact, his eyes were drawn toward Christine; the dim rays of the gaslights reflecting off his own lights, a striking blue. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he offered in a whisper. A secretive, protective air about it.

"I. . ."

"You don't look well, madame," noted Meg. "Madame?"

Her breath tapered off with shallow inhales. And her lungs begged wildly. "Where is he? He's got to be here. . . Raoul-"

He approached audacious and quick. "It's alright, it's alright," he soothed. Just in time did he catch her as her eyes began to roll back, and her body go limp.

**If you're not impressed, don't worry about my feelings, I'm not thrilled how I wrote of Erik meeting Christine. It'll come with the next few chapters, and become a little more substantial.**

**So what do you think is going on? Mystified? We suspect foul play? ;)**


	3. 3: Frenzy

**Thank you for the review, CupidsArrow. I hope it shall have the same effect upon all reading. Still, I don't take any credit for its characters and their fascinating personalities.**

~Chapter Three: Frenzy~

A pungent aroma assaulted her senses, before her eyes could open voluntarily. To it she reacted with a grimace, recoiling. But it would seem so far that her vision had been blunted, blurring the light and objects about her. Candles and shadows melded with each other like the artwork of Van Gogh. Quiet and slowly, they moved about, around her.

"Mmm. . . F-Father. . ." whispered Christine.

He used to leave her a candle by the bedside. Without regard of the expense, he indulged her need for a little light. It would burn throughout the night, and extinguish itself with the coming dawn. He had been sympathetic to a child afraid of the dark. Such an irrational fear now, he merely waited for his child to outgrow the fear. While all was quiet, a warm feeling circulate through her body. Such peace.

Conscious thoughts had been confiscated; her mind no longer of her possession. Only these warm memories. The nightlong candles. The faint, melancholy violin strings. The musty smell of an attic. And his manly voice low, humming. From where it came, she could hardly guess. Perhaps he meant to make her believe she heard the Angel of Music. . . And coming through the window, the moonlight was bright white, sometimes even the most vivid blue. . .

"Father. . ."

It was a man's voice, but he was strange. His face not belonging to her father. The hair was smooth, and the mustache neatly trimmed. Then, his fingers pressed the inside of her wrist.

"She's waking," he declared, still hushed. "Miss Daaé? Miss Daaé?"

"What. . ."

"Are you sure we should wake her?" asked a woman nearby.

"She'll go right back to sleep," he affirmed. "Miss Daaé, can you hear us?"

All feelings of peace and warmth faded. Recovering more of her senses, Christine attempted to sit up. Her head and shoulders were as much as she could manage lifting. All muscles were still, feeling heavy and sluggish. She'd been laid alone in a bed, her own bed. The attic and its mustiness, a pleasure of the fancy, was overwhelmed by the clean stench of a freshened hotel room.

Raoul. None of these people were him.

"Where?" she gasped, already panting.

"Calm," he commanded gently. "Be calm, mademoiselle. Don't try to get up. . . My name is Lefevre. Dr. Lefevre."

"What?"

"If you don't recall, you fainted earlier. As you seemed to be in distress, I have-in your best interests-given you a sedative."

"W-Why? Why, what's happened? Raoul. . . Where is he?" she mumbled incoherently.

"Best you not worry about that now. I advise that you sleep through the night, and as long as need be tomorrow. You've had a very long journey."

"I'm not. . . fatigued," Christine wagered, convincing no one. "I must. . . find my husband. He's-"

"Mademoiselle, please, do not speak anymore. Rest."

"But I must. . ."

"So you see, doctor," replied the woman again. Through the darkness, the thick braid wrapping round her head was recognizable. That smooth, pale face very minimally lined; though not young, it was a countenance unnaturally devoid of wrinkles. And to the prone young woman, they lacked the worrisome lines that should've been there, lacking, in a heartless way. "She does not seem well."

"Not quite herself anyway," he corrected mildly.

"What are you talking about?" groaned Christine. "I am perfectly well. . ."

"Miss Daaé, this is Mme. Giry, the housekeeper," the doctor introduced the black-clad woman. "She and her staff will gladly be at your service. These good people will look after you. And her daughter, little Miss Giry, she will be looking in on you."

"No. . ."

"She's even been good enough to volunteer spending the night here with you."

"I don't want. . . I don't want her, or anyone, monsieur," begged Christine, weakly. "I want my husband. They know where he is. . ."

Someone knocked meekly at the door, but still, brazenly entered. The young woman had changed from her black and white uniform. Dressed to be comfortable, her tight chignon had been loosed; a golden mane cascade a few inches below the shoulders. Not a single wave or curl of its own nature. Soft brown eyes, like her own, clasped upon her own. Sympathetic or suspicious, kind or callous, a pair of eyes over her bed hardly induced relaxation. Or for that matter, it would not be quelling misgivings over Raoul's whereabouts.

What do they mean by all this? What are they all hiding, that they must watch me?

"It will not inconvenience you too much, I hope, Miss Giry?" asked Dr. Lefevre.

"Not at all, monsieur," she answered sweetly. "It might be nice for her having someone near."

Over and over again, in feeble attempts, Christine tried to fight the drugs and gravity. And wasting her breath, hoped to defy them and send them away. Rudeness did little to counter the doctor's directions. Within minutes, all company but the maid had cleared out. She'd pulled the cushioned stool from the vanity table out to the left of the bed. How innocent and unassuming a figure she posed in the moon and candlelight, smiling like the nurse humors her patient.

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Christine stiffened in her horizontal stance. Under the circumstances, this friendly person was an enemy. Ignorance was as much her enemy as deception.

"You don't mind, I hope, if you let me stay with you?"

"You know very well that I do mind," replied Christine, and in the coldest tone she could muster.

"Everyone here is very worried. You scared me terribly when you fainted."

"W-What is going on here? You can. . . tell me. Please, why is everyone lying to me?"

"No one. . . Why would anyone lie to you? Maman would never lie about anything."

"Why. . . hide the truth?"

"I wish I could help you, in any way I can, Miss Daaé."

"So now you. . . don't believe me anymore." The and more she was slurring, the more fearful it made her. "I don't understand it. . ."

"Were you supposed to meet him here, you think? Your husband?" inquired Meg.

"No, no. He. . . was here with me."

"Oh. Well I. . ."

"Miss Giry, I know you probl-probably mean to be kind."

"Please, call me Meg, Miss Daaé."

"You. . . you do believe me? Don't you?" It could only be hoped, not believed. The way the girl's lip curled inwardly, and the pucker in her brow indicated very little confidence.

"What's his name?"

"R-Raoul de Chagny."

"Have you known him long?"

"Since we were children. . . yes," sighed Christine. "We were ju. . . just married today."

At this response so far, Meg was smiling, wearing the walls away. As aware of it as Christine could be, as much as she resented being shepherded and treated to forced company, someone was finally acknowledging her husband's existence.

"Is he a very handsome man?"

"Mmm. . . yes," nodded Christine. "A. . . gen'lem. . ."

"I will stay with you, while you rest tonight. And should you need anything, you may let me know."

"Miss-m Meg? Please. . . tell me you believe me? Help me. . . you will a help. . . help me find'emm I husb'n'?"

It could've been the sort of plea that Christine would've made to her father, as if Raoul were drowning, and she watching from the shore. For but that one exception, he had always been able to look after himself. A man from the navy should be able to take care. But where? Locked away? Gagged and tied? Hiding? Ill? Dead-no! not dead.

Raising her hand weakly to her head, she rubbed a forming ache in her forehead and temple. A wretched man that doctor, to rob her of coherency, of all intelligent thought. It was foolish to be laying there, speaking to a complete stranger.

"Would you like me to help you into your nightgown?" offered Meg.

Though having taken liberties with her health, at least, none of these lying strangers had dared to take liberties with her person. The laces on her pink muslin were still tied. Someone removed her shoes, but nothing else. Her throat swelled to vocalize her refusal when another visitor came knocking, or rather, tapping at the door. Three raps. Meg leapt up, as if expecting it. _No more. Go away all of you_, she bemoaned. _All of you go, leave me. . ._

This late-comer didn't set foot inside. Meg gave a soft gasp surprised, especially being that it was a man. His tone, smooth and gracious, detained her scarcely a minute all too aware of his infringement.

"Monsieur, just asked me to give this to you," said Meg.

As consciousness was fading quickly, Christine could not reply, nor ask his identity. The syllables of Raoul's name rose to her lips, but wouldn't pronounce. In her trembling fingers, the maid placed the thorn-less stem of a single red rose, a black silk ribbon neatly tied at its middle.

There had been roses in the bouquet put in the vase earlier. A memory that nearly set off another bout of crying; had she not been under the power of drugs, what little energy was left in her would've come out in howling sobs. But something about it quieted the winds and quenched the clouds of her storm: the velvet sensation of the petals perhaps. The ribbon, however lost on her, drew her fingers to its two loops and tails.

* * *

Contrary to its purpose, Christine had risen early. The sedative having worn off could no longer suppress her mental capacities and beckoning of the imagination. Somehow, the night had been endured without the presence of her husband and dear friend. Gold light now filled the room. It must've been the maid that had the curtains drawn back. A tray had been left on her nightstand, but it sat there long enough to go lukewarm. The steaming kettle smelled strongly of green tea, and a plate with a fresh, buttery croissant heard the petition of her stomach. No dinner had been taken the night before.

But stronger than hunger was the drive for the hunt. Staggering a little ungainly, she managed to locate her trunk. Ready for a long day, she flung the hopelessly wrinkled pink muslin across the vanity stool. A light cotton would suit for the bright and balmy hours. But of all things, she gave the greatest attention to her hair. Such was the situation that called for her looking her best, her most arranged, and keen. They could not doubt her word, calling it the effects of wine or the doctor's prescription, or bad dreams and a sleepless night. Sleep had not refreshed. A lavender line had appeared beneath both eyes. Nothing to be done about it.

Without assistance from anyone behind, and fighting against nature, she fixed her curls into a plait as orderly as possible. A pair of steady walking shoes laced taut, securing all belongings, she set off bent upon this great undertaking.

Nobody seemed to observe her leave the room, fortunately. All guests were still lazy at seven-thirty in the morning. Nobody was attending the lobby as of yet, but it wasn't the time of day to hail a cab. Public vehicles did not run the roads for another couple hours, from what Christine had remembered. And the local authorities did not keep early hours, especially not for a peaceful, little town like Perros-Guirec.

Coming to the dining hall, she tugged at the locked glass doors. Breakfast, still in the works. It wouldn't do to be loitering in public rooms where everyone could see her, but at least she would blend in with the company in the dining hall. Down the hall, towards the outside doors, she could take refuge in the terrace if it had been empty. But some were already very much awake. Once again, there was the peculiar, unattended American heiress, Miss Hamilton. An open parasol in hand and twirling. The lone, young man she had been spying last night, the one that hailed from the nobility of Germany, busily sketched not a far distance from her. The two were partially concealed by brush and queen palms, as they stood along by the railing. Then, there were the two Firman and Andre girls from last night who'd been sitting together miserably at one table. More agreeably engaged now, they sat perched with their legs dangling over the edge of the stone fountain. Already practicing for adulthood, the minds and lips seemed rapt by some piece of gossip. Such company quickly dissuaded her.

Too foolish for words and very much aware of it, Christine had retreated back up to the second level. But instead of the confinement of her room, where she'd have lost hold of all emotions, there was the music room. This morning it was now empty. And though alone, it felt like trespassing. The man that had been here playing last night left a mark on this room, as if it were his own rented apartment. Christine searched eagerly among the flowers. And as suspected, as she dreaded, the roses and lilies were here. Among several displays, this one was discernible as the maid had arranged the flowers in a violet glass vessel. And they still smelled just as sweet. Her head lulled forward, with her nose plunging into the pink and white head of a lily. The very tip dotted by the sticky nectar of the stamen stalks. Deeply in and forcefully out, each breath drank the fragrance, reveling in this self-afflicting, aromatic torture.

"Good morning."

Her eyes opened and the body whirled round, and feeling caught. It was the same man from last night, in almost identical attire, and the same strange mask.

"G-good morning, monsieur," she swallowed.

"You are looking better," he noted. "Are you well now?"

"I. . . I don't know," she answered dumbly. Advancing beyond the threshold, her throat parched desperately.

"They treated you well, didn't they?" his voice husky. What would he have done had she said no? But-

"The doctor was kind," she admitted. "Though I didn't like it I was sedated without my permission beforehand. Why-"

"Did you. . . receive my peace offering?"

"Why do you call it that, monsieur?" Christine's brow furrowed.

"Naturally, my. . . presence causes some apprehension," he confessed, self-consciously. While the man was not so weak, she realized his eyes were not focused with her, as when people naturally talk. It appeared to be he was looking past her.

"Oh? No, you did not. . . frighten me, if that's what you imagined," Christine's head shook, denying. "I am simply at a loss, well, I still am-about my husband." Did he wince? She observed how the eyes flickered in injury, and the grimace in his lip, where the mask partially hung over.

"So, you've found nothing then?" he replied.

"No."

If his thoughts could be counted as speech, then he'd be called a rambler. Her complexion had regained a little color from when he last saw her; keeping his eyes turned away proved no easy task.

"But, since you ask, I think that I've found something," she announced. "These flowers here, in the purple vase. This was the bouquet that the maid fixed for us last night. But it's just one thing. If I were to find his trunk or-or his jacket, they couldn't refute it."

"Who?"

"Everyone. Everyone here," Christine sighed.

"Including me?"

". . . You, do you not believe me?"

Neither answer could be correct, to him. And his throat constricted in contemplation of his reply. This creature before him might be as flighty as a bird.

"Why should anyone wish to harm you, or your husband?" he asked coolly, evenly.

"How should I know? Raoul is an honorable man."

"What do you mean to do then, as of today?"

"Well, as soon as I can, I'm going down to the police station," declared Christine. "I want them to have a look over this place. Search everywhere. Go through every room, all the guests' rooms and the staff rooms."

"Why not simply ask the housekeeper?" inquired Erik. It was easier to keep his eyes off her and her angelic features with the piano keys beneath his fingers and his eyes on the varnished ebony. "Couldn't she conduct a search just as simply and straightforward?"

"Well, I suppose."

"But?"

"Well, I suppose I could, but after all that has happened last night and all the staff so decidedly against me, I don't trust the housekeeper to see things any differently today."

". . . You might want to consider your next step, mademoiselle," he replied adamantly. Striking the keys a little too hard. "You haven't any evidence to prove your story, to prove their lies, and no witnesses. Even one would do."

"Are you sure you never saw my husband last night?" begged Christine. "Please, you wouldn't lie about it, would you?"

"I cannot speak for everyone else, mademoiselle, but I have no earthly reason for torturing a young woman in such a way."

She asked him to believe, and he could not find it in himself to believe, not _wanting _to believe. For the first woman, to tolerate his unusual visage, had to be one already claimed by another man. Why it should bother him was unfathomable. Not knowing anything of her or her name, it struck him as clearly preposterous. Those sad eyes, the down-turned lips, the smooth cheek, and all those coffee brown ringlets. . . On second thought, she was better last night, wearing it down and loose.

Then, he couldn't help it anymore. "What is your name?" he put to her.

"Christine."

A cast glimpse to the side showed a slight blush in her cheek. Now, he'd undone himself. She wasn't just some woman, no one that he could not care less. _I'm surprised you've been unmarried for as long as you have_, he mused ruefully.

"It would be best, if you mean to search this hotel through, that you conduct yourself discreetly, my dear," he advised. "You might go giving people here the wrong idea of you."

"Honestly, I really don't care what they think of me," she sighed. "I don't care if I make a fool of myself or anger somebody by it. I mean to find my husband." Her back straightened. "I'll find him or drive myself insane in doing so-"

"Now, please, don't take it that way," he spoke mellow. "It is just my concern. Never said I didn't believe you."

"Maybe not, but you don't believe me. That's just it."

". . ."

"Very well. I will leave you now, and be on my way. . ."

"Be careful."

"What?" No reply. "Why do you say that?"

"It doesn't mean anything," he dismissed, with a shaken head. "I wish you well, and the best in your search."

Sadly now, the rose had meant little, and done nothing. It made no enemy, but no ally of him. And with a long sigh, he resigned himself.

* * *

The couple came every other year. As soon as the opera season was through, she longed for warmer air with a higher salinity. While it wasn't the Mediterranean, it gave her a taste of the reminiscent places along the Spanish shoreline. And the crowds were not bustling in Perros-Guirec as it was down in the Riviera. These waters had fickle currents. Northern waters always proved unpredictable, with the winds and the colder currents of the Atlantic. Perros possessed everything necessary to one's comfort and enjoyment. For Carlotta, it had its beaches, its palm trees, and its fine restaurants.

"I promised Larissa and Séraphine a day at the spa," she informed her husband. "I lost forty at cards last night, so I figure the sauna and the manicures should cover for it."

"And what, pray, shall I do all day?" As usual, as he did best, he placate with that sugary tone. In truth, he expected no sympathy.

"Go to one of those clubs downtown," she shrugged, spooning the last of her serving of scrambled eggs. "Billiards or betting, or some other, whatever you men do when we're away."

"There are none of those clubs here in Perros, my dear," he lamented. "But no matter. Perhaps I shall. . . Well, there are some sailboats down in the harbor."

"You don't sail, Choleti. And you don't swim."

"Or I could just fish from the pier. They've some tasteful, clever spots for it."

The plump woman chuckled. "Since when do you fish, darling? You can't even abide the smell of a dead fish on your plate; why would you like go and catching live ones?"

"It's something to do, I suppose."

Never failed every so often, she had to tease but scold him. At she'd do it at the same time, employing a cheeky smile. "If you didn't work so much, darling, you'd find yourself a hobby worth to waste your spare time on. Just ask that man upstairs, the baron." Instead of a sip, her swallows of coffee were consumed in greedy gulps. "He could teach you a thing or two."

That arrow-like nose wrinkled. "Men who paint do not strike me as very manly. And usually are very disturbed, depressed human beings."

"Speaking of disturbing," Carlotta interject, eyes rolling, "you hear anymore of that pitiful child with the lost husband?"

"I did not."

"Saw the doctor leave. He was here almost half an hour." With a long exhale and a purr: "Sad thing, these children getting married when they should be in a good boarding school, under the watchful eyes of their governesses and mammas."

As they were not the only ones in the great dining hall, their neighbor two tables away was caught by an ear. For he also, was shaking his head, a vigorous shake that bounced the swirl and spring of gray hair growing sparse on his scalp. Half a crêpe rolled and squished between his jowls. Blueberry syrup smudged against a corner of his lip.

"This is a most peculiar affair," he mumbled.

"What's that father?" asked his daughter.

"I say peculiar. Everybody still talk about it. No one 'as seen these man. No one. Girl been visit by a doctor. She got the hysterics."

"I believe, Father, you mean to say she was hysterical," corrected she.

"What the difference?"

"One's a noun, the other's an adjective."

There was nothing to suggest that he cared. But for the sake of being like everyone else, the elder Italian attempted to blend in, failing dismally, to his daughter's contempt. For there could be no worse fate in the life of a fair maiden, than to be cursed with the company of a portly, unsightly, ill-mannered man with dirty fingernails, charcoal-dusted fingers, who chewed with his mouth open. And worse of all, to call him her father. Her lips had twisted sourly.

"Dolce, these eggs a got no taste," he complained. "Pass me the salt."

"Father, I told you. Don't call me that here," she snarled, practically throwing the shaker into his hand. "Why did you insist we come here so early. The summer festival hasn't even started yet; there's nothing to do here. There's no one to talk to in this little village. Why couldn't we have just stayed in the south longer?"

"I will not stay in hotel like that. They rip me off!"

"I don't understand why we must come here. It's not as if taking me away from Milan is going to rid you of-"

"Oh no! You don't dare breathe that man's name in my presence, Luciana."

"I love him, Father, whether you'll hear his name or not."

"There are plenty fish in the sea," he excused, with a waved hand. "He's no respectable man. All 'e wants is the money."

"Since when did we become so high and mighty? You're a stonemason, Father. Maybe you're success, but what are you, just a common workman with more money than the rest."

"You learn your lesson soon enough. You marry a good man, or you end up like these little French girls who mees'place their husbands an' scream their 'eads off!"

He was bad off enough, but when Luciana heard this soft, distant laugh-observing her discomfort-it boiled her like a drop of sun in the bloodstream. A passionate, dark-haired creature of short temper was a plaything, so easily teased and provoked. Scathing arrows flew, but as killing as the eye was that widespread lip. And those fire red locks, flirting with every waiter in passing, the bachelors and the husbands to stray near her table.

Mme. Larissa Firman and Mme. Séraphine Andre turned the woman cold shoulders coming to meet up with the Spanish lady. Scandals and fashions had been replaced as topics with the subject of the poor Swedish girl up in Room 10. The conversation strung together with words of 'foul play,' 'doomed to begin with,' 'youthful folly,' and 'mad' or 'crazy'. By the end of the day, three women could have a whole novel written. A theory for a table. Where and what happened to the husband? Was there even a husband?

If Christine wanted any revenge for the mindless, slanderous tête-à-têtes of them all, she struck a look of fear in all faces for a moment. By her side, a familiar face and an old _camerade_ of the late M. Daaé, he stepped in: M. Miford, commissary of police. The housekeeper, a manager, and several maids were in tow. A few gruff shouts brought the dining hall to silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please!" he bellowed. "For it would seem there have been reports and concerns raised about this establishment as regards one of your guests, a M. le Vicomte de Chagny. And as no one seems to know of this man, but being considered missing, I've come and been granted permission by management-to make a search of each of the guest rooms." Gasps ensued. "All rooms, public and personnel. Now, if you'll please cooperate and kindly return to your quarters, we shall come and conduct our search. Hopefully we may find some explanations, and get through this with as little inconvenience as possible. Thank you!"

Not one among them showed a single sign of pleasure. Christine was almost smiling at the scene, ready to be vindicated. Perhaps she would not find him, but something would rise from these shadows. Then one of them, brazen and foolhardy enough, yelled on the walk out.

"Get him a collar and tag next time!" she cried out.

Christine missed it, _who _exactly had so blatantly declared war with her. . . A woman.

**To be honest, by comparison with others, I know Erik seems a little placid at the moment. But I promise, that will change. And if a certain Oliver Grey is out there reading, giving this story a chance, I will convey Christine as she truly is, but not a cowardly, brainless child. Even when I've done E/OC fanfic, I don't try to make her that way.**

**You think Erik will break her out of her shell? What do you think of my hotel guests? They're all pulled from cast members of the originals, even Miford from Leroux's novel. I invented Mme. Séraphine Andre from a character role of the play 'Il Muto.' And Giovanni and Luciana from the Susan Kay novel (though I've never read it).**

**Any input, any suggestions may help if you see it needed. I may try to use it. All helps! **


	4. 4: A Delusion of Grandeur

**Short update. But I thought it would be necessary before getting any deeper. Your reviews have been fuel for me, all 10 so far. Considering some:**

**Lena: That's just exactly what you could describe Christine's condition. Yeah, she's being GASLIGHTED. By who, sorry, no clues!**

**Savor-Each-Sensation: You asked about Luciana and her role. I didn't bring her in to make her a competitor. The idea I got from the summary of Kay's book and other fanfiction, she seems more like a silly girl and an irritant, more than a love interest. Maybe I'm wrong. But for MDS, I'll take your words into consideration.**

**To all of you, so generous, thank you!**

~Chapter Four: A Delusion of Grandeur~

If Christine had wanted revenge against them, it certainly did not last long. Bringing in a trio of local lawmen to further peruse her interests seemed to level her in the minds of all guests. Some took the mandate with shock and horror. The majority, however, reacted in outright anger. With each room and door that was investigated, each of the occupants questioned, the worse off was her state of mind. However, some doors proved more embarrassing than others.

To go in order, Mme. Guidicelli and Choleti of Room #8 caused the biggest storm of anybody. One of the junior officers dared to rifle through the closet unasked; such action that La Carlotta deemed tyrannical, of anarchy. Her shrieks rang to high heaven. Carrot red locks flung over and about her shoulders. Her own angry flush outdid the generous quantity of rouge.

"This is ludicrous!" decried Choleti. "This is not how you find missing people."

"This is necessary," assured M. Miford.

"So what is it to us you knew this child and her father from an age ago?" snarled Carlotta. "I take great offense that any such personal feelings should have any influence on the legality of your procedures here. You were not here last night when she was running up and down the stairs! knocking on every door in the hotel! accusing, slandering every person under this roof!"

"It is my duty to be certain of everyone's innocence. Take it that way, Mme. Guidicelli."

"Señora Guidicelli," she hissed. "I'm not common French."

"What exactly do you expect to find, M. Miford?" asked Choleti. "There's not much place for anybody to hide a body in a hotel room of this size."

"M. Miford!" gasped Christine.

"Yes, what is it?"

The young woman had been frozen, paused before the vanity. A grand array of cosmetics spread the surface of the table. Perfumes, rouge, powder, lip paint, kohl, and common pills in a glass jar that the lady would take for her skin and color. Her brushes nearly crowded out a small, insignificant bottle of cologne behind them. Turning open the top, the most dominant scent of the tincture, Christine discovered, was a musky wood, and spice. . . Hard to put a finger on. Its identity couldn't be made out on the opposite side, marked in the Spanish language.

"Mmm. . . Nothing," huffed Christine. "Just thought. . ."

Thinking about it, or thinking about it long enough, there was no aroma about Choleti's presence. The poor man, outshined by a talented, successful wife, commanded no attention.

"You thought what?" demanded Carlotta, strutting up alongside her.

"I just. . . Well, Raoul had a cologne a lot like that." Her lips pursed upon her revelation.

"And what, you think I stole another man's cologne?" suggested Choleti, followed up with a single syllable 'Ha!'

They did not remain much longer after. Betraying a fleeting fancy as whimsical as that one, her head hung shamed for the next several doors. But with each new room, Christine head straight for the vanities first. Whether male or female occupant, she checked for any cologne bottles. Nothing else resembled anything close to Raoul's. _Many men wear cologne. And its probably a pretty common one_, she concluded.

Of course, Christine could hardly forget the painful knot that came to her stomach, knocking on number five. He took his time in answering. As he had not been down in the dining room earlier, Erik had heard no announcement. Yet, resentment did not surface in the visible features of the masked man. If anything, their intrusion was expected.

"We shall not take long, monsieur," Miford cleared his throat. "But we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"As you wish," he replied coolly.

"What is your name?"

"Erik Destler."

"How long have you been staying and intend to stay at this hotel, M. Destler?"

"I've been here a week on matters of business with other guests, MM. Firman and Andre. My agent may give you more details, but essentially involving the publication of some of my compositions."

"You're a composer then?"

The masked man blinked distinctly. "Yes," he replied, an obvious answer.

"And you will be leaving end of the week, is that right?"

"That had been my plan. . . but as of now, I've no obligations back home. I may extend my stay."

Christine had been making a study of the vanity and its very empty drawers when this bit of news met her. And it struck her: such a peculiar statement from a peculiar man. Erik Destler. She had not thought to ask him before and felt some guilt. _He had different plans. Now why should he need to stay longer? _she pondered.

"Where are you from, M. Destler?"

"Paris."

"And you work independently, I'm guessing. Have you any family there?"

"None."

"Any family? Parents or siblings?"

"Both parents, deceased. No sibling exists."

"Wife or children?"

His back was facing Christine when she faced him, but it didn't require a glance at his face to feel that rising, angry heat from within him.

"No," the tone a bit strained.

". . . I understand, M. Destler, that you were acquainted with this young lady as of last night. Have you known her since before coming to Perros?"

"Neither her or her husband."

"So you do not know the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"I should like to help in any way I can, M. Miford," he assured. "Of course, I am not one who actively socializes with other hotel guests. I am often occupied by my work. Unfortunately, I had not seen this woman with her husband. And I've not since, seen any man by this description coming or going from this place."

"Thank you," concluded the commissary. "And my apologies for the intrusion. But-"

"It's understandable," said Erik, dismissively. "My testimony is not helpful, I know."

"Well, we could not do without it, nonetheless. Shall we be moving along, Miss Daaé?"

As little there was to be found here, Christine was hardly moved by the older man's directive. Probably irritated and unduly invaded upon, his back remained turned against her. For that, she was sorry to leave the room. It wasn't her nature to turn her cheek on someone who held a grudge with her, who had some quarrel to be picked with her. The curse of her own pure-hearted nature.

But all thoughts and pangs of guilty conscience vanished quickly. Door number seventeen proved the most provoking, the most humiliating. A scarlet silk decorated that skeletal form that barely passed for a human body. Even without her cosmetics and powders, unlike the Italian diva downstairs, she was still charm itself. The locks of her fiery mane half coiled and pulled up in the process of her toilette. And in that silk-smooth voice, topped off by a quirked, surprised smile, she greeted the officers: "Gentlemen!" she purred.

All three men removed their official uniform caps, behavior that elevated this woman to royalty. When those green eyes fell upon her, it only served to unnerve Christine. Once inside, they proceeded in the same way as they had already done sixteen times before. She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, at perfect ease.

"May we have your name?" began Miford.

"Braspuissant. Isadora Braspuissant."

Color revived to Christine's face. A pull of the brain overpowered the tumultuous emotional stir: logic. Protests were silent.

"Miss Braspuissant, we must ask a few questions and do not mean to take much of your time."

"Of course," she shrugged, smiling. "Oh, be my guest, gentlemen! Look around. I know you will; can I offer anyone a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, mademoiselle no," Miford declined politely. "Could you tell us how long have you been a guest here?"

"But a few days, monsieur."

"And what is the nature of your stay, business or pleasure?"

"I make it my business to take pleasure in my travels."

"Leisure then?"

"Of course."

"Consulting the hotel's books, you are here alone?"

"All alone."

"Where are you from, Miss Braspuissant?"

"I could tell you, M. Miford," Christine's voice cleared, hardened, deliberating with slow and cool bass. "I saw this woman last night, downstairs in the dining room. And she said her name was Hamilton, claiming to be by birth French but an American. Have you any explanation for that, _Miss Hamilton_?"

"Hamilton? I'm sorry, mademoiselle, you must have me confused for someone else," simpered the woman.

"Do you mean to say," said Miford, "that you've never seen this young woman since she'd checked in yesterday?"

"Well, of course, I did see her in the dining room last night," corrected Isadora. "But this girl was at another table, and. . . she was quite alone."

"You came up to me! You saw me, and you approached me!" fumed Christine. "What's the meaning of this?"

The remark was all but ignored. "She seemed to be a little quiet, almost a little nervous and fidgety. I had thought maybe she were talking to herself-"

"She's lying, Miford!"

"Do calm yourself, Miss Daaé. Please- Uh, Miss Braspuissant, as there seems to be a conflict of stories, may I ask for some identification? Have you a passport or legal papers of any kind?"

"My passport, yes."

It was out of green trunk this proof was produced. Christine inspected the luggage, seeing nothing outwardly amiss. But before she had a glance inside the green trunk, the woman had closed and turned the latch on it. Altogether, she traveled in four separate boxes: two trunks, one valise, and a hat box. As usual women are, it could be called extravagant. But Christine had barely filled two boxes alone. Nothing else seemed normal. Eyes and heart had fixated with this lime green leather and gold brass-pin border lining its edges.

"Here you are, M. Miford," she declared, handing over the passport.

"You have been to. . . New York, America. . . Southampton, England. . . Calais, France. Are you on your journey home?"

"What was that story you gave me about your life in America?" demanded Christine. "And your coming here to find a rich husband, and all that nonsense? How do you dare to stand there and lie to my-"

"Mademoiselle, I am sorry about this misunderstanding, but we never spoke last night. You were alone the whole evening. I saw no man, husband or otherwise, with her."

"She's lying, Miford!"

"Miss Daaé, please, it is not just to all these people to be accused of willful deceit. No one is willing to help under that charge."

". . . Her name may be Braspuissant, but how is it that I know your name, Isadora? How would I have come up with that on my own?"

"Perhaps you heard my name in conversation with someone else? Or perhaps you had a look at the guest book as you were signing in? That is explainable."

"And what is it you're intending to explain? How do you explain my husband's disappearance last night?"

"I cannot explain it. For I do not account for it."

"Were there any others apart, or privy, to the conversation?" he asked of Christine.

"No one else was at the table, but there were plenty in the dining hall. . ."

"Beg your pardon, monsieur, but she does not look well."

"Would you care to tell, _mademoiselle_," Christine sneered, equally the manner in which Isadora spoke the title, "what exactly you keep so secretly in the green trunk?"

"What you would keep in a trunk, green or otherwise, clothes."

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind my having a look-"

"Miss Daaé, I granted you permission to search the rooms with my men," affirmed Miford, forcefully. "For this, I did not."

"I think it necessary, M. Miford."

"Regardless what you think, we are not permitted. The rooms are the property of the hotel. Luggage falls under what is considered private property."

"Can you not simply overstep that? You are the law!"

"Not without due cause, and I'm sorry to say, young lady, you have no justifiable reason for defying anyone's personal rights here."

"Unless, you say, that it's permitted. Miss Hamilton or Braspuissant, whichever you prefer, I request an examination of the contents of this trunk!"

"Is that a request?" she taunted, teasingly. "M. Miford, I am perfectly understanding of this situation, but I do not find this all that amusing. In fact, it's bordering on harassment."

"My apologies, Miss Braspuissant. It was hardly my intention-"

"Monsieur!" protested Christine.

"Miss Daaé," he spoke up, more firmly, "I have been doing all I possibly can to help, and I am willing to do anything I possibly can, for your sake as well as your father's. But be patient and try to understand, while respecting the rights of others. I am being patient with you."

"And what of Raoul's rights? Does his safety matter so little?"

"If you cannot do that, I'm afraid I must ask that you return to your room and await our conclusions. You ought to be aware that slander is a crime. If you cannot control your accusations, someone may be roused to act and charge you with defamation of character."

"You needn't worry on that score," replied Isadora. "I doubt anyone here would take it that seriously."

"And what do you imply by that?" snapped Christine.

"Simply that you need not worry offending anyone. . ."

"Oh, of course," she laughed bitterly, "because I must be crazy, is that right? That's what you think, isn't it?"

"I have no more proof of that than you have proof of the existence of your husband. . . Do I, M. Miford?"

It had started out such a beautiful day.

The sun may have been out, but the day had lost its heat. Its shine was now dull. Or there could be clouds, but rain didn't come. _I may as well be insane, no one will believe me_, she realized. _And if no one will believe me, I will be insane before long. Either way._

* * *

Nadir presumed it safe to venture out at last. One room over, he delivered a knock before letting himself in. His friend, and employer, was not in the habit of locking his room. When people normally locked their rooms, especially at night, Erik did not bother about it. But, as far as composing or at his instrument, there was no excuse for disturbance. Music sheets had been strewn across the single bed, the majority crumpled and the rest simply creased.

A few were old fancies and whims Erik had simply jot. How he still longed for their completion, but alas, the man had no power-as an agent or a friend-to urge Erik into bringing them all to a finish. Then, the poor man found himself hurtling toward the floor. A quick step righted his loss of balance.

"Do you mind?" griped the Persian. "Really Erik, are you trying to break my neck? Why don't you put your boxes and things on a chair like everyone else?"

"Intruders would be dropping dead from the smell of your dirty laundry before death by my luggage," retorted Erik. He'd been standing still, for the moment; the eyes roving madly across the two pages currently in hand. "Have you any business to do right now, Daroga?"

"I'm tired of that. I've told you already."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't like being reminded, Erik. I'm not a chief of police anymore. May I ask what's got you so agitated at the moment?"

"Agitated?" he echoed, incredulous.

"I would assume so, with your room in this state," he huffed. Locating a spare chair, his friend flung aside Erik's dark long coat. Under different circumstances, it would've earned a very stern, dagger-throwing expression. "M. Miford was here, of course. He's almost done upstairs."

"Has he found out anything?" asked Erik. Feigning indifference, he did not look up from the music; his eyes, however, weren't upon the bars and notes anymore.

"Just from what I overheard, on their way down, they didn't find him, nor any of his possessions stolen by other people. . . I really don't get it. Makes no sense why a girl like that should travel away from home to check into a hotel, full of strangers, invent an illusionary husband, and have him disappear."

"You may have answered your own question."

"Well, how else do you explain it? No one has seen him. You. . . Well, you see everything and anything in people. Have you seen anything the likes of this man, Raoul de Chagny?"

"No, I have not. . . Is that a question or are you doubting my word?"

"It's almost a confirmation that he, in question, does not exist."

". . ."

"Poor girl," he sighed. "I saw her last night. She did not strike me as a. . . unbalanced or outlandish. At least, she seemed so, until that whole scene with the hotel managers."

"Have you heard anything if she is going to check out?"

"Can't say for sure."

". . ."

"Why? What would you do about it?"

"Perhaps, I'll go see her."

"See her? You mean, talk to her?"

The music score had been casually cast to the bed. "It might do good."

Nadir rose from the chair. "Erik, what are you meaning to do? Why this sudden interest in the girl?"

Being gently shoved aside, as Erik retrieving his own dark long coat, a shiver rent through. And so wordless, so serene of countenance, it was something serious. In such behavior, there loomed a threat. There was much to consider. The lighting of the room had to be just so, not drawing much attention to the stark white. Chairs had to be turned at the precise angle, keeping Erik's right side facing the opposite direction. And to be sat down before any number of company, being forced to talk, Erik had to have his agent, or the servant Darius, at hand. Either man could buffer a conversation; rude and uncomfortable subjects could be averted. It took much persuasion to bring it about.

All those prospects in view, Nadir rose and readied to follow his friend. Then, Erik turned slow, bumping each other's shoulders with a light brush. "It would be better, in my opinion, not to make ourselves a party."

"Erik, would you not like me to just go with you? Things might go smoother."

"Let me rephrase, Daroga, I am going _alone_."

"Why do you want to go alone? Do you mean to visit with her or what?"

"She's lonely."

Whatever else passed his friend's lips, Erik didn't hear it. That door closed with a hard thud, but on softer steps and with smoother intakes of breath, he reigned himself in. A nervous hand was lifted to her door, still number ten. From inside, there was the pillow-muffled sounds of sobs. Broken. Dispirited. Angelic. . . How to describe it? Women blubbered hysterical and winded themselves. It wasn't child-like; it wasn't that typical whine.

"May I come in?" he inquired, following the three knocks. The young woman wasn't quick to respond.

"Who is it?"

Erik? M. Destler? The man from Room 5? Little thought had been given to the moment, he realized. "We met last night in the music room," he introduced.

"What do you want, monsieur?" she sighed, still fitful in her tears.

"Just to speak with you a moment," he answered.

". . . Come in, if you wish."

Oh, did he wish, but he could hardly consider her acquiescence favorable. Either she or a maid had drawn back the curtains. Not moving from the bed, Christine lay face down against the pillow. All efforts to tame her curls futile; the comb skewed gracelessly. Aches plagued her everywhere: the head, the throat, the stomach, the heart, in all four limbs.

"Forgive me disturbing you," he began, tentatively. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"If you could only find him," she sniffled.

"Your friend, the commissary, he found nothing?"

"No."

"I am sorry. . ." More or less the truth, and it made him wince slightly. "Madame, I would like to help you, but I've come also, knowing what you must feel. This is hardly healthy for you. It will do you no good to keep locked away in here."

"What would you have me do? What else can I do?"

At this rate, he could only expect her to weary of this and drive him out. Rounding to a side of the bed, lowering to sit alongside her, a surge of insanity-in a compassionate form-had him reaching for her hand hanging off to the side. "Forgive me, I did not introduce myself before. My name's Erik." Surprisingly enough, the hand did not recoil.

"I know. . . You mean to be kind-"

"Madame-"

"But please, don't try to humor me," she pleaded. Turning over and sitting part way up, at last, their eyes met. Yet again, there was no reaction, not to the mask anyway. "I know what you all are thinking. You think that I am mad, don't you? I know. I don't understand all this, or why. But I was not alone. Raoul was here when we came-"

"If it is true, Madame, then have faith, it can be proven."

"But how?"

"We can figure that out. . . Perhaps, if we could talk another time," he suggested. Hardly even realizing it, both his hands were holding to her one. It didn't prove to unsettle her. For after all these hours alone, and friendless, she would probably be glad to have anybody near her. The tide was ebbing from her red-rimmed eyes. "Could you. . . find it in yourself to do that?"

"What?"

"Once some time has passed, and you've had a little fresh air, we may talk more about it."

"You think so?"

"Yes. The day is fair, and the path down to the beach is not far from here."

The thought of it alone: walking in daylight, walking in public, walking among people, and free for observation. Too many memories threatened his mind and peace to dare commence. If it would but dry tears and take away the stains of them on her cheeks. . . She certainly didn't look adversely.

"If you. . . wish to help me. And so long as you have nothing to do-"

"I don't, Madame."

_Let me talk to you. Erik will be kind, and care. Erik will ask no more of you than that. Please, say yes. You need someone. I know. Say you would need me. . . Just a few minutes, that's all. No more. . ._

**Well, what do you think? Is she going a little crazy? You think Erik's a little crazy? When it comes to Christine, I think it's normal of him coming off a little creepy/crazy. Some of you like may like that. But I go for a balance without OOC-ing a character when it can be helped.**

**While I welcome any/all your opinions, I'd like to make an offer on this topic. What kind of unmasking would you rather see: Christine tearing it off (keeping with the book/movie) or a voluntary reveal (Erik taking it off himself)? It won't come up for awhile, but just to think about. I have many ideas.**


	5. 5: He Leaves Roses Too

**Thank you for the many reviews last chapter. Your opinions will be noted (the unmasking, I mean). Most of you voted for a voluntary reveal. I'll see how to accommodate that when it comes time. I will enjoy that chapter!**

**To Savor-Each-Sensation: You are a rare reviewer! One review, and you practically wrote an essay! I loved it! I laughed that you caught me using Google Translate in my name choice of Isadora 'Strong Arm'. Your French may be rusty; mine is practically nonexistent.**

**To CupidsArrow17: If you find a creepy Erik cute, I'm sure you'll think him very cute with these upcoming chapters. Ha-ha!**

~Chapter Five: He Leaves Roses Too~

"Are you certain you know nothing about it?" Little Jammes inquired of her peeved colleague.

"Just why exactly do you say that?" Meg retorted harshly.

"Well, last spring, that old lady's diamond parure went missing. There is that."

"Jammes! It was a momentary weakness," huffed Meg. "Besides, I did return it."

"Fortunate for you," agreed M. Rémy, who gathered up a pile of folded towels for the kitchen. "If Miford had known about that little incident, I think he'd have dragged you down to the station on mere suspicion."

"I had no more to do with it than you or Jammes, if I must swear to it," declared Meg.

Down below all guests' rooms and cozily concealed, the world could wait. Hotel guests suffered terrible verbal abuses, especially if they were fussy and overbearing. They became most intriguing topics for discussion, without any say in the matter. From the night before until morning, Meg answered questions already conferred three times over. Everyone, to the eyes of everyone else, seemed to know more than they let on. It only doubled Meg's sympathies for the girl of room ten.

"Have you been to see her this morning?" asked Jean-Claude. Sullen and a little sleep-deprived, as always, his voice was still monotonous, yet to be roused by the cup of coffee before him. "Did she take anything?"

"No," said Meg. "The tray looked untouched."

"How long is she supposed to be staying for anyway?" asked Little Jammes.

"Maman said a week."

"Oh dear."

"What do you mean by that?" sniffed Jean-Claude.

"One week. We've seen how she's behaved after one night's stay; imagine what we'll have to deal with for seven."

"Like it's some great task, running up trays and answering any ringing bells," huffed Meg. "Understand this, if you expect to-"

The door to the staff room bounced against the wall, thrown wide open. Disturbed on her day off, Mme. Giry did not look kindly upon her daughter. Recognizing the purple and green robes, Meg anticipated that her mother's day would be spent out in town, miles away from the hotel. But as the room fell silent, it only then occurred to her what had angered the older woman.

The phone had been buzzing, rattling irritated.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear that!" she hissed. Meg hastened for it, fumbling about it. In curt but not unkindly words, the man on the other end ordered for a picnic lunch. When she tried to ask him about any preferences, the line clicked off.

"Do not let that happen again, Meg," chided her mother. "Who was that?"

"The man from room five wants a picnic lunch."

"Room five?" scowled her mother. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. He didn't say what he wanted; just to have it brought down in an hour to the beach."

"Very well then. Get Rémy or Buquet to take it down."

* * *

As everyone had told, the day proved a lovely sight. Balmy, with the gentle ocean breezes tempering the heat. What few clouds were to be seen were thin and white, glowing against the brightest bay blue of sky. Gazing on the sky alone strained her eyes, not even looking in the direction of the sun. And the sands, flushed a beautiful taupe. Not yet noon, it was scarce any wonder the number of the crowds growing along the shoreline. How it panged her, for one of Raoul's promises being called to memory. They were to go down today and swim, or try to, all the way out to one of the islands.

The man guiding her by his looped through arm wore a chill upon him. He was wrongly dressed for the beach climes. Elegant black and pristine white more belonged at a dinner table, or as he was, sitting before the piano. She was walked along the path on his left side. Most men walking passed them tipped their hats politely. Straw hats. This man, with his black felt hat and inch-wide brim, could've been walking the streets of Paris on a wintry night. He said little from the time they'd depart from the hotel.

His word didn't fail her. Indeed, the fresh air and the glories of nature bathed in sunlight refreshed her senses just as well as her drugged sleep of last night.

Christine did not ask, nor care so much, where he seemed to be leading. But before long, he had diverged away from the public walk down to the sands. Near a more rugged, less public bend in the boardwalk, he started to turn off the unpaved slope. Up ahead, palms and cypress. For as attractive as the sun made the open sands, they created an equally pleasant shade. Some branches bent low and twisted before their path. Both of them had to bend below some to pass. Overhead, chattering seabirds disputed their unexpected presence.

"We may rest here," he suggested, gesturing toward a sandy clearing. A younger, shorter palm tree formed an umbrella for them. Christine eased into its jagged stock and roots, while Erik remained standing, with his tall figure posed against the older palm. Either gathering his thoughts or waiting for her to break from her own, a silence stretched to an awkward length. One watched the seagulls in flight, the other the people. Nobody from the waters or the awnings and changing booths seemed to notice the pair of them.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" remarked Christine, hardly giving thought. Neither one mused on the beauty of the scenery.

"It is," he said, kindly obliging her.

"May I ask you something, M. Destler? When you had said you'd be staying longer," her throat drying out, "did you think of me. . . I mean, did you think of wanting to help me?"

"I am not a man bound by obligations," he replied, vaguely. "My employment is music. It is immaterial where I am, so long as I continue to compose. But in earnest, your situation does concern me. It has raised concern in many others back at the hotel."

"It wasn't my intention to cast suspicion on everyone. I want to do everything I can, and as you know, I have done everything I can think of to get at the truth. I'm terrified, M. Destler, what could've happened to him. We weren't here long before he disappeared. And it's not that he's simply missing."

"Why would he vanish without a trace, that's what you mean," he assumed.

"Yes."

Finally, he relaxed enough to permit himself to sit down. A broken section of cypress suited for it, but to be forced to look up at him did not relieve her nerves, in the least.

"I can help, but most of the answers will depend on you. Think back to the very moment you entered the hotel. What all did you do?"

"Well, we came and signed in, like all the other guests. Then we went up to the room to change. That was the last time I saw him. I went down to the dining hall to wait for him, and when he was late coming, that's when I found him gone, and his trunk and all jacket too-"

"You have to break it down more than that," he said, his head shaking. "Surely, you spoke to several people before being shown to your room?"

"Of course. M. Miford questioned all those people first. There was M. Poligny. He was the one to attend us in the lobby. There was the porteur who took our luggage up to the room. . ."

"Buquet, I believe," Erik added.

"Yes. And-And the maid. She's small with dark hair. . . Mlle. Jammes, I think. One of the others even called her Little Jammes. I can't recall. She was in our room when we came in, arranging a big bouquet of flowers, by Raoul's instructions."

"Only those three?"

"Yes. And all three of them denied ever seeing Raoul," she huffed. "They've all claimed that I came to Perros alone."

". . . It is peculiar."

"Peculiar? It's infuriating," she sighed fretfully. "They're lying; they have to be."

"You have no control of that, so try to think about yourself. What all did you do from the time of your arrival to his disappearance?"

". . . Well, as I said-"

"Did you sign the guestbook or just him?"

"He did. He signed for the both of us."

"Was it your decision or his to come to _Premier Jour d'été_?"

"He made the reservation. I told M. Miford that. Raoul had sent a telegram. When M. Poligny had been checking us in, the telegram _was in his hand_."

"Did Miford try to verify it?" he questioned.

"I. . . I don't remember. I was with him and the other officers, in every guest room, but downstairs in the staff rooms and such, I wasn't with them. . . Why do you say that?"

"If he does his job as he should, he should've searched the lobby desk and all the guest records. That may be our start," he nodded. "Get a look at the guestbook, and look for that telegram."

"But I already saw the guestbook," Christine replied. "Only my name was there. And in my maiden name. Daaé."

"He wouldn't have signed for you under your maiden name-?"

"Of course not. Why should he? I would think once a girl is happily married, she's very proud of her new name. And her husband is very proud to call her by his name."

Suddenly, the ice that kept his countenance under an emotionless seal melted. No longer afraid to look her in the eye, they now blazed with intensity, boring into hers. "Did you say, Daaé?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Any relation to Gustave Daaé, the violinist?"

"Yes. My father," she nodded. To Erik's delightful discovery, he earned a long, anticipated smile. "Did you know him, monsieur?"

"Not personally, as I would've been honored to; no, but a great admirer," he replied. His voice moved in an undercurrent of awe. Bringing her father into the picture was just as beautiful as watching a flower react to the sunrise.

"I had no idea!" she admitted enthusiastically. "How did you hear about him?"

"In my many travels, I got to hear him perform in Gothenburg, a concert held at Trädgårdsföreningen. Must've been nearly ten years ago."

"I remember that! That had been one of his favorite venues while performing in Sweden. What a shame you'd never met him. . ."

Erik discerned her meaning. "How long has it been?"

"In two months, it will have been seven years."

"You must miss him."

"Very much. . . For many years, he had been my one companion," she mused, sadly yet not bitterly. "To many, he may have seemed a strange man. It is not thought the best course to both pursue a career and raise a little girl. I did miss our beautiful, little house where I'd been born, but I'd have forsaken the grandest castle to be at his side, wherever we went."

"Where have you been?"

"All over Sweden, through nearly all of Europe. I also liked Boston, New York City, New Orleans, Atlanta, San Francisco. Before he died, he'd intended on heading for Mexico and Argentina. There was no end to where we could go."

"How did get by after his passing?"

Christine shrugged, in an attempt to keep herself light. But it didn't pass. His death had left a mark that time hadn't healed. "I got a job at a small theater in Paris, dancing. So music continued to be apart of my life."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," he expressed deeply. "If he was the kind of man that lived his life the way he played his violin, any child would've envied you, to have such a father."

He hardly thought about what to say; what need was there to think? Speaking with a stranger had never been so natural. If they had ever been strangers, it certainly didn't take long to remedy that. Just smiling alone made her like a stranger, compared with the frightened young woman everyone had come to know. Perhaps the sunlight made the impact. Flick and flutters of the eyelashes would catch the light, then dash it away; a simple, unoffending thing that thoroughly captivated. She had rearranged her hair again, yet the curls protested within their confines. Unfortunately, the winds were not strong; it was too polite a current to sweep a woman's hair to unruliness, to flowing about her shoulders. .

Of course, though among strangers, it could've been that this girl was at home, returning to a fond place of her childhood.

"Perhaps I could show you that cottage sometime," said Christine, "where my father and I had stayed that one summer."

"Yes," he agreed.

"That is, if it sounds interesting-"

"Of course," catching himself answering too eagerly. "It would be a pleasure."

Footsteps, clumsy and laborious, were trekking up the sandy slope toward them. It killed her rosy expression. And Erik need not have guessed the cause. Joseph Buquet arrived a little winded up breath, bearing that same stone face. Instead of approaching Erik, he went up toward Christine, and all but dropping the basket before her feet.

"Your luncheon, mademoiselle," he begrudgingly delivered.

Though he didn't flinch, he was cowardly enough not to dare cast eyes towards the man. Erik would've gladly seen the man trip and roll down the rest of the way, even aiding him in the venture if not for his companion. Christine breathed under strain, fighting the indignity.

"I could suspect that man of almost anything, the way he looks at people, and how he treats everyone," mumbled Christine. "He was certainly rude to us, taking our trunks up to the room. I don't understand it."

"It will be interesting questioning him, if it comes to that." Erik distracted himself, unrolling the white picnic blanket and throwing it open across the clearing. Since he had not specified what he wanted to be packed, M. Mercier had done his best. A little of everything from the kitchen had been put in: cold ham cuts, bread, cheese, apples, grapes, pastries, and a canteen of mild beer with wine flasks.

"Will you not eat anything?" puzzled Christine. A perfect, appetizing plate had been put into her hands, but Erik inclined toward nothing in the basket.

"Later maybe. I am not hungry."

". . . Perhaps the grapes or a little beer? Something small or easy to chew?" She had hit exactly on his hindrance, and it caused him to pale on the left. "Is it hard to eat with it on?"

". . . Usually, I don't," he answered, curtly.

"Whatever you wish."

Poor choice of words. A world of meaning was in them. While Erik had not inclination toward the food itself, it would've given her pleasure to have him eat and enjoy it along with her. She tried not to make herself look a glutton, but without any dinner and breakfast, hunger couldn't be suppressed. _Raoul would've enjoyed this_, she mused. _We could be together doing this now, if he were here. I would rather. . . No, that's probably not fair. He is good company_, she chided her judgment. At the very least, each one could admit it was pleasant, for once, not to be alone.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry-"

"It's nothing," mumbled Erik.

". . . It was very kind of you to want to spend lunch with me," she said, blushing. "Surely, you must be busy-"

"I am not a busy man. Nor, _for that matter_, very kind," he reproved.

"It was kind of you to feel sorry for me. I know you do, M. Destler."

"Between us, you may just call me Erik. Can't say necessarily that we are strangers."

"Oh. . ."

"We're not strangers, are we?"

". . . All I know about you is your name, and that you compose. That's pretty much it. I know next to nothing, while you know nearly everything there is to know about me. That was probably unwise. . ."

"Yes," he replied, chilled suddenly, "it was unwise to reveal so much of yourself and your past to a stranger-"

"Please, it's nothing personal," pleaded Christine. "But my husband is missing and under the strangest of circumstances. I just don't feel trusting of anybody."

". . . We are not strangers. I do not blame you for distrust, but you needn't be afraid of me, my dear." The last of his sentence sounded winded, dwindling off in a whisper. "Forgive me. What would you have me call you? If I cannot call you Miss Daaé. . ." Heaven forbid, he would call her Mme. de Chagny. Until the fact be proven, he would rather think of her otherwise. Nobody else would call her by her married name anyway. "What would you prefer?" he cleared his throat.

This took a moment of her thoughts. ". . . If you have me call you Erik, then you should call me Christine."

"I will do all I can to help you and your young man. . . Christine." Humbly and lowly, despite a thickened tongue and hard swallow, he tested the use of her name. The two syllables together pronounced like a music chord. . . _If she were a piece of music, she might be an andante in F minor, perhaps, and played mezzo piano. Her melody sweet but melancholy_, he imagined.

As the breeze did not vary, the pair lingered on the hill a good while, even after Christine had finished with her portion. The most Erik had managed in sustenance was a few sips of the imported beer. It didn't take much movement of the jaw to swallow the liquid; how invigorating as it singed, traveling down his throat. The noon hour was warmer and the breeze tropical.

Christine. . . Christine. . .

* * *

Upon returning, the urge to commence with her searching again took effect. Erik's words, however, made more of an impression. If she hoped to make progress and find out the truth, she could not seem like a woman out of her mind. A difficult feat considering how her mind had been bent and her sanity tried without Raoul's presence. Concluding the outing, Erik insisted they keep up the ruse.

"Let's have everyone think you're here and enjoying yourself," he suggested. "You'll seem innocent and ignorant of appearance. Meanwhile, we'll keep on the lookout."

"How? You mentioned the guestbook and that telegram."

"We'll find them. That will be later tonight. But as of seven o'clock, you will be dining out, like everyone else."

"Dining out?"

It was no sly invitation. It was bold. And it was not a question. She would go out and expect his company. Strange enough, but observing the discomfort it caused, he added a third member to the party: his friend and agent, a M. Khan.

When they were not speaking, which was practically the whole walk back to the hotel, she questioned whether it were so harmless. The man had overcome the 'stranger' boundary, but without removing doubt from her mind. Going out to dinner, together, the situation would bear the looks of a courtship. It sprang Raoul to mind again and again. _But I must find him. This man will help me. It's not the same. We're not pursuing each other. It's all for Raoul. When I tell you all, after finding you, I hope you will hear me out and understand my motives._

Three o'clock.

So as not to give false impressions, Christine decided on the most probably unbecoming dress of her wardrobe. It had been an old favorite, one worn on her days off around the theater. Dove gray with blue stripe, a lace chemisette from the neck down the V-shaped neck, and long sleeves. Besides the lace, the frill was minimal. Only to complement it, she'd set aside a plain pair of glass, blue earrings. No one would think more or less of it. Once decided, she laid the whole outfit across the bed and stepped out to refresh herself in the bath-room.

Then, returning to the room, there was a rose!

A freshly picked blossom lay across the top of the dress. Its stem, bare. Of course, it could not have been Erik. The last one, propped in a flask by the mirror, was bound with black ribbon. And this little offering had come attached with a note folded over.

_Do not fret, Little Lotte. I am well and safe. But I cannot tell you more. We're in grave danger. Do not try to leave the hotel. I fear they may be watching us. I will do everything I can to see you out of harm's way as soon as I can. Do not trust anyone. I love you. R._

**Had to do research for this. If you were to look up Erik's reference to where Gustave performed in Sweden, you'll find it is a real place, like a public park. Pull it up on Wikipedia.**

**The reason I thought of Raoul and him giving a rose? In the stage version, it was Raoul, when coming to Christine's dressing room, brought her a single red rose. But in the 2004 movie, Erik was the one with the rose, but that black ribbon just pulled it together. Just a side thought. Doesn't really matter.**

**So, in case you were wondering, yes, Raoul is alive.**


	6. 6: Shadow of a Doubt

**Hello again, thanks for waiting. Had a little writer's block, and got through it. As you may have noticed, this is a chapter named after a Hitchcock movie. Thank you for the reviews these last chapters, and hope to deliver even more drama with the next.**

~Chapter Six: Shadow of a Doubt~

Forced to wait and watch the hands of the clock turn, Erik began to pace. Long ago, he'd already shaved and dressed for the evening. He knew his friend had noticed it, all these little ministrations and labors. It was vanity. That he couldn't excuse himself, but he justified himself by never being a vain man. She should not have to look across the table at her escort in slovenly, shabby day clothes. The black collared shirt and matching coat lay across the bed, replaced by a tailored suit with white shirt and gold cufflinks. The tie chosen was simple, but Erik had taken it off and retied it again enough times.

_Music, think of that, stay on that subject_, he told himself. _Her father was a musician. Music will naturally be apart of her conversation. _Apart from that, his conversation at dinner might be scarce. If it did come up, there could be discussion about her travels. Christine did not strike anyone as worldly, but different cultures and the variations of countries could hold attention for a good while. Reminiscences of the past and family memories were nothing so dreadful so as to be shunned, but he hoped fervently, whatever they talked of, that the mysteriously absent boy called her 'husband' did not intrude upon their evening.

She may not be married. She may be trying to tell everyone she is married because of the situation. Perhaps, they were eloping. It would explain why everyone uses her maiden name. But she insists otherwise. And there is no ring, after all. Something is amiss. More than likely, though she may be loathe to admit, she is a free woman. . .

This whole outing was not a disrespect of the great institution, and Erik had not been raised to show it any disrespect. But circumstances, as they were, seemed to make the young woman alone and unprotected, and unclaimed.

_I may not be the dream of any woman, but I'm not standing back, so long as you do not object, Christine. . . Christine. . ._

Back home, in his own living quarters, Erik did not keep a single mirror. Now here, it felt as if there were another's presence in the room. And who was that in the reflection? the better half or the worst half of him? Always, unfailingly identical. But when his eyes would stray to this surface, his judgmental, self-condemning thoughts took form. Hard and menacing eyes gazed back at him, causing him to shudder. And why not? His eyes and face intimidated everyone, himself included.

"Are you ready?" asked Nadir, entering without a knock.

"I've been ready for some time," Erik replied curtly, nodding. ". . . Is she waiting for us?"

"Erik, I don't think she'll be joining us tonight."

"If Firman and Andre wish to discuss contracts and such, you may tell them I'm unavailable this evening."

"Erik, no," sighed Nadir. The head shook. "Miss Daaé just rang from her room to excuse her from dinner."

"What?"

". . . I'm sorry, Erik."

"Did she give a reason? I don't understand; she agreed to everything earlier today."

"I know, I know. Maybe it had nothing to do with you-"

"No, no. . . It was probably too much to bear." Both the eyes and voice had dropped forlornly.

"Why? You don't suppose you said anything to offend her?" he guessed. "Maybe she was just uncomfortable, that's all. She just agreed to dine to be polite. . . Alright, I'm sorry. I know this is making you feel better, but just realistically-"

"Did she give any reason, Nadir?" sighed Erik.

". . . She just said she didn't feel well. From women, that could mean a world of things, Erik. Trust me."

"It's a kinder way of saying she won't. Not that she can't, but she won't."

"It may not be all just you," he shrugged, and hoping to assure. "Erik, you may be a peculiar man, but this girl herself doesn't seem all right. You know? There is, as it stands, no proof of-"

"She's not crazy!"

"Well, how would you know that from one lunch with her?"

"She's not what she seems, Nadir. It takes madness to know it. I own it, my friend! My face does not come close to humanity, and too scarred by experience to know what is normal. She doesn't have that look about her."

"That look?"

"That look of emptiness and sluggishness and lack of thought. She thinks a good deal. She does not think like a child, nor act like a child. That's how the mad ones are; they're either helpless and clinging or aggressive. She's not either."

"Then explain why she should make up a story about being married and her husband disappearing?"

"Why don't you explain it?" challenged Erik. "You seem convinced."

"There is no proof. There are no eyewitnesses."

"She lacks proof."

"Nobody can remember a man they've never seen, Erik," he demanded, so as to rest his case on that point.

"True. But that's not to say that every eyewitness is honest."

"What? You saying all these people are lying to her? Why?"

"I don't know."

"These people-the owner, the porteur, a housemaid-why would they lie about it?"

"As of now, that's not the primary concern. For her sake, this man does exist and can be found."

"Ah, you say 'for her sake,' " Nadir construed. Suspicion had furrowed the brow. "What you mean, though, is you really don't believe her."

"She's not given me reason otherwise. But as no one sees fit to give her any justice and prove herself, I will."

"In all honesty, Erik, your mind and that girl toying with you is looking like a dangerous combination."

There was no further concern about the dinner reservation. Once the poor girl of room ten excused herself, he knew Erik's appetite faded instantly. The reservation was cancelled. It would be another night of each other's separate solitude. He, dutiful and respectful of his friend, prepared to take dinner with his servant downstairs in the dining hall. The piano and the music room was to absorb him as it did each night, filling the void of a meal with his music-endless darkness. It wasn't simply his life, but the theme to every song to come through those hands.

Each man parted for the night, to each their own routines. Come eleven o'clock, just as the doors were being locked and both guests and staff settling down to bed. Erik had, only once, pressed an ear to door ten. She may not have cried, but the silence hardly settled with him. No maid was seen coming or going. A dinner tray had not been ordered and brought up. Around eight, only the housekeeper saw fit to check in. The good lady knocked, and received no answer. Her daughter, Meg, tried again later, but Erik didn't note the door opening or any exchange of greetings. Perhaps it was some relief to his constant pain. She rejected, not only his presence, but the advances of everyone with sincere intentions.

Believing her, though unwillingly, would be the only way he'd ever be allowed to enter Room 10 again. There could be no other way of meriting her favor. As soon as the halls and all apartments had quieted, he slipped the confines of his room. And to keep an innocent appearance, he'd taken up his long black coat. More or less, a bed robe, while it resembled more the look of a cape. The only explainable reason he'd have for being out would be a trip to the bath-room or in need of an aspirin. Of course, were he caught downstairs in the lobby, explaining oneself out of it might be near impossible. He merely depended, trusted on his silent movement.

He carried no candles, nor looked to light the gaslights going down. Too alert of mind and too keenly gifted of eyesight, the masked man navigated quite well for himself. Closed down until eight in the morning, Erik correctly expected all drawers and cabinets to be locked up. All documents of official nature, the property of the hotel, was not treated casually. Taking a few instruments from his shirt pocket, and a few necessary minutes of picking for every lock, it yielded fruit. In the top middle desk, front desk, Mme. Giry kept the guestbook, alone and neatly separate from the rest of her papers and records.

Beginning with himself, and Nadir and Darius, from the day they checked in, Erik went down the list.

_Heinrich de Barbazac March 31, 10:03 am Room #16_

_Richard Firman April 2, 8:27 am Room #14_

_Mme. Larissa_

_Mlle. Marie_

_Gilles Andre April 2, 8:55 am Room #13_

_Séraphine A._

_Inés A._

_Mme. Carlotta Guidicelli April 3, 5:23 pm Room #8_

_Choleti (sir name undecipherable)_

_Sorelli April 3, 5:23 pm Room #9_

_Ubaldo Piangi April 4, 7:16 pm Room #18_

_Isadora Braspuissant April 4, 7:21 pm Room #10_

_Giovanni Rota April 4, 7:30 pm Room #14_

_Luciana Rota_

_V. Reyer April 6, 11:40 am Room #15_

_A. Moncharmin April 7, 12:24 pm Room #4_

_Christine Daae April 7, 6:35 pm Room #10_

By all outward appearances, the records had been kept in decent, chronological order. Putting aside the book, Erik rifled through the open cubbies in the wall. But nothing in this search suggested that the hotel kept a record of reservations made by telegram. Probably once the person arrived and claimed their reservation, their previous communications were discarded. Had there been anything anywhere-a telegram, a letter, a receipt of some sort-they could not defy her word. Unfortunately for her, and fortunately for him, there was no record anywhere of a Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.

* * *

Her husband had been the first guess, and surprised, it was her initial reaction to being woken by a knock at the door near midnight. The sight of Erik nearly closed the door. She'd immediately sprang back a little to make a grab for her robe. _Could it not wait until tomorrow, whatever it is?_ she pondered. Before any words formed, her eyes had widened to their capacity as Erik passed the threshold of the door. . . and shut it.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," he excused. "But I couldn't do this about during daylight hours."

"You didn't!" she gasped. "Is that the guestbook?"

From the inside of his cinched robe, he placed it her hands. Hesitation had gone, and her apprehensions about him were forgotten, once again. _Do not trust anyone_, Raoul had warned her. Noted to herself alone, it was perhaps the first time, since becoming his wife, she had disobeyed.

"Have a look," said Erik. He reached for the handle to the ceiling's gaslight. "From what I saw already, nothing seemed out of place."

"You saw it already?"

"Yes. I'll need to replace this once you've looked it over. Here's the page."

"No, nothing has changed," she sighed. "Nothing. I've already seen it. Just last night, Mme. Giry let me look inside here."

"You've seen your name only, though. Look through the other guests."

"I can see some of them have poor handwriting," she observed.

"There's one in particular, however. A woman by the name of Braspuissant."

"Isadora?" gasped Christine.

"You know her?"

"Yes! I spoke with her the night we arrived, and I had told her that Raoul and I were just married. . . And, I also recall, she used a different name. When she introduced herself, she said her name was Hamilton. Then this morning, when M. Miford came to investigate the hotel, she told him her name was Braspuissant."

"Well, look here," he said, pointing back a few lines to the previous page. "It would appear she's been staying here since the fourth."

"Three days before we arrived."

"And her room-"

"Number ten!"

"So, she was in this room before. . . before we came."

"She must've changed rooms then. Do you know where she is now?"

"Room seventeen."

"She must've request-"

"You suppose then she has something to do with all this?" Her stare was one lost of all hope. "It makes no sense, Erik. Why should she do anything to my husband? Before last night, we were all strangers."

"As far as you're concerned, my dear. Perhaps that'll be our lead for tomorrow. We'll find out why she's here and why she traded rooms. Tell me, is there anything unusual about this room, different from all the others?"

"I don't believe so," shaking her head, with a sigh. "Probably the only thing is, in this room, there's that tree outside on the balcony. It blocks direct view to the ocean, but if. . . if some suspicious person were to sneak in here, they could probably come up and down the tree, if they were to go about it that way."

"You mind opening the window a moment?" he requested gently.

Sleep would be impossible for her once he'd left, but the man's new insights were going to be well worth the loss of sleep. Life returned to her body and brought a spring to her step, as she ventured toward the tall glass French doors. The foliage encroached heavily over the small, bare balcony. Most guests might pull up chairs from inside the room to set them out if it they wanted. From this prospect, there was little to see, just as she said. To the far left, a small portion of the sea and the beach was left visible.

Judging from the size of leaf and the body, it was just an unruly, common aspen-full and healthy as they usually are in summertime. Someone should've been trimming it more frequently, but it wasn't attended to, apparently. Gazing through the thick of the canopy, many branches fingered out in all directions. Fine hairs compared with the broader arms down the trunk.

"What do you think?" asked Christine.

"To be honest, I don't see how anybody could scale this kind of tree without drawing some attention to himself. You see, there are few branches down low enough to make for a foothold to climb. And though many of these branches look sturdy, these closer to the balcony would not be capable of supporting the average human's weight. Whoever got into your room would've used the door only."

"You sound as if that's reassuring."

Erik turned her by the shoulders towards the door, seeing her shivers from the cold. Or perhaps, it wasn't so much from the night air. With good reason, she feared; suddenly, his own skin was catching the same chill.

"If it's of any comfort, Christine, I do not sleep much," he began. "And my room is not far. If you felt in need of anything, if you hear anything during the night, you're more than welcome to call for me."

"Thank you, but I wouldn't dream of disturbing you-"

"Nonsense."

She'd closed the guestbook, and at his coming to retrieve it, their small and impersonal distance had shrunk down to a mere few inches. In any other setting, she'd have gladly indulged her natural inclination-when someone inspired it-to embrace the gracious man. Instead, she merely repeated her gratitude clumsily.

"Just promise me one thing, Christine," he entreated. "Let me help you in all this, and don't do anything rash."

"I promise. . ."

"You're sure?"

_I'm sorry, but I cannot help it, dear man. But I hardly feel sane. How do you expect me to think my way through this without anxiety, standing idly to the side?_ Christine feared, for though silent, that he heard those words through her eyes, through her heartbeats, through the unspoken. Her hands trembled, but she held them both together, attempting to wring them into an emotionless state. _Do I tell him? Raoul said trust no one. What harm would I do by telling him about Raoul's note?_ By the seconds, her decisions changed over and over again.

"Do not hesitate, should you need anything," he said, nodding. "I wish you to be safe."

"I feel safer already," she admitted. "Thank you, Erik."

". . . You need not thank me," he sighed. "I'll be returning this downstairs. Sleep well, Christine."

"Good night."

Since then, the curtains remained drawn open, and the doors to the balcony were kept strictly locked. For the remainder of the night, she lay full awake in bed turned on her left side, facing the window and tree and the moon's ethereal beams streaming through the quiver of the leaves. Misshapen shapes cast across the floor, swaying about. To the uneasy mind, they borne frightful resemblances to a sneering, laughing face-and a pair of eyes.

* * *

Robbed of the ability to sleep, peace of mind, and a happy first two days of marriage, this morning was different than the first. With the first, Christine had fought the ebbing effects of the doctor's sleeping drugs. It was with more fear than anything else that drove her through the rest of her day. There was no way or reason to blame anybody.

Now, there was someone.

For what reason didn't matter now. The air of the room heated around her by the boil of her blood. That woman and her face leered at her through nightmares as she dozed now and again the night before. Green eyes. Red hair. Bright but dark-almost crimson. Those full lips pulled back like a wolf, with her prey in sight. Through those teeth, with that delicate curve and simper, her words were cream-thick, smooth, rich. It kept her from lingering long in bed.

Throwing back the covers and stepping into her slippers, she snatched up her bag and necessities for the bathroom. The bed robe was almost forgotten before going out of the room. The inner blaze of this fire consumed every inch of the body. If she encountered anyone outside, the poor, unfortunate soul.

What stopped her in the middle of charge, from blitzing clear out into the hallway, was a pair of voices coming from near the bathroom. Christine stepped back inside, closing the door to nearly a crack, just enough to be able to hear the voices. One was the maid, Mlle. Jammes, making short, one syllable responses while Isadora ordered a tray of breakfast to be brought up. Neither one was detained long. Isadora went in and claimed the bathroom for the next ten minutes, to attend to her toilette.

Until Little Jammes passed by, she stayed hidden. A scheme, borne of a perfect circumstance and a matter of seconds, had Christine bounding for the stairs up to the third storey. Aiding to the circumstance and her precise timing: chance. Testing the door of seventeen, the knob yielded without reservation. Unlocked! Although, it would seem strange that someone with something to hide should leave their hiding place, unbarred and unattended. Closing the door behind, logic and sense was left outside.

Christine started her search with the luggage, in particular, the green trunk. Unfortunately, this is where chance had stopped. The woman left the green trunk locked; an empty keyhole taunted her. Without the little instrument, her daring venture was fruitless. With a frustrated hiss from her lips, five white knuckles formed into a fist banged violently against the top. _If I could pick a lock, if only!_ Many people could do it, and with a little know-how, it was not considered a difficult thing. All thoughts next went to the usual list of things: hair combs, knives, hairpins.

A hairpin would have to work, as something small enough to fit the lock.

It was another vain pursuit, as Christine scoured the contents of each drawer of the vanity. Little boxes and cases that would contain brushes, combs, and such produced nothing. _What woman travels without hairpins? _she fumed. Not even one had strayed behind the mirror, or dropped unnoticed to the floor. Mme. Guidicelli had hairpins scattered recklessly about her own vanity, with long strands of hair attached.

Checking the nightstand, perhaps the woman may have removed some one or two forgotten hairpins at the last minute before going to bed. Nothing else was locked. The other two trunks merely sealed by latches. All the clothes they'd have carried were already unpacked, either hanging in the closet or folded in the lowboy. Giving up hope on a key or hairpin, Christine lifted the nearest corner of the mattress, stretching a brazen hand for any loose contents concealed beneath.

"That's the most obvious place to look, if you were to hide anything that is," she said. The voice, instead of a growl, came out as a purr. The redhead shrugged the door closed, not the least bit perturbed, even smiling. Glancing toward the vanity, spying all compartments wide open, she chuckled: "No stone left unturned, I see. You really suppose I could hide a man in a six-inch drawer?"

Half the air of the room, cool and complacent, blended with the other volatile half, surging with heat-forming a great storm.

**Ahhhhh-haaaaaa!**

**Sorry, don't usually get like that. Boy, I can't wait to write the next chapter! Don't worry. It's not as simple as it would seem. Red roses to you all.**

**By the way, it's not a pet project or anything, more on the side: I'm working on a fanfiction under the book Sense & Sensibility: _Adventuress: Story of Captain Margaret_. If anybody out there is a Jane Austen fan, feel free to take a look.**


	7. 7: Number Seventeen

**Once again, I apologize to those who were kind enough to give me and my story this second chance. I've returned and will keep this going until the end. Thanks to all the reviews they were helpful, and have been very motivating.**

**To Igenlode Wordsmith: If you have the time and wish to invest, I will accept your offer as a beta. Only thing, I don't use my PM Inbox. But I don't mind a beta posting their critique through the regular review method. Here and there when possible, I will do little bits of editing. Nothing major, but I see what you mean as far as my grammar goes.**

**To michellecarriveau: I remember you reviewing my other story. Thank you. 'My Silhouette' was probably one of the most interesting stories I've done for fanfiction. I hope this one will be enjoyable, as much for you readers, as it is for me, the writer. While I own nothing, I have such fun. That scene in the 2004 movie, with the toy model theater and all the actors, that's the fun of the writing! LOL****CountessofRothes: I'm sorry I inspired such a response from you and others, but it was your speech and advice that has saved this story.**

~Chapter Seven: Number Seventeen~

"May I. . . ask something?" replied Christine.

"Of course."

The blazing glare of a nineteen year old girl wasn't anything to faze the worldly, experienced woman across the room. Knowing that, having no advantage or feeling of power, Christine could only hope to feel bold. "May I ask why you felt the need to switch rooms?"

"Switch rooms?"

"Yes. When you first checked in," explained Christine, "you were originally put in Room #10, which is my room now."

"I don't know how you are aware of the fact, but yes," shrugged Isadora, "I was in number ten before seventeen."

"What's so special about this room, or my room for that matter?"

"I'm under the impression, Miss Daaé, that this has nothing to do about hotel rooms. Listen, for once and for all, I had nothing to do with your husband's disappearance. If he is your husband or not, I don't care. Frankly, nobody here could care less-"

"Why did you give me a pseudonym when we first met? Is Braspuissant your real name?"

"As it is on the hotel registry with all the other guests, that would be correct," she nodded.

"Then what are you trying to hide?"

"I never met you the night you checked in. You were alone."

"But-"

"Nobody else can prove otherwise, mademoiselle. Now, will you be much longer about my room? I forgot a brush, and I have a bath running downstairs."

Long strides pronounced each step, as Isadora fiddled about her instruments across the vanity and picked out her hairbrush.

"_Evil woman_, you'll never get away with this," hissed Christine. "I don't care who believes me or not."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" she sneered. "You don't have it in you, _petite_. If you intend to keep up this ruse, people are going to believe you truly are a madwoman. Stalking guests and rifling through guests' rooms, calling to police, random accusations: you are showing all the symptoms of a breakdown."

"You think that, do you?"

"It's already happening."

". . . Care to divulge what's inside the green trunk?"

"I do not need to, I do not have to, and I certainly will not," simpered the redhead.

"Coward!"

"What are you supposing you'll find? his clothes, _his head_?"

"Proof of your guilt, whatever is in there."

"You are incorrigible, so much so, it's almost adorable," chuckled Isadora. The rope trailed a little behind her panther-like stride. The door was thrown open. "Most husbands would either be very endeared or very irritated to have their little wife worked up into such a fervor over their absence. Take my advice. Next time you marry: get a collar and tag and leash him, for your own sake."

It had been her! Her little taunt in the dining room with the arrival of M. Miford. Of all things, and on the worst day of her life, Christine shuddered from jealous, painful throes igniting flames to her blood.

"Now are you quite finished?"

"You'll know when I am," exhaled Christine. "Good day, madame."

Just as her foot crossed the threshold, Isadora snagged her once again: "Funny that you would suspect me or anyone else before you might suspect your new friend from number five," she pointed out. "Friend, is he?"

* * *

Delivering a tray to the man was not something Mme. Giry trusted to the staff of maids. When Jean-Claude went off duty, the older woman took it upon herself. Curious girls and their staring would only produce an angry ring from the phone down in the lobby, and if the mood were black that day, he did not tip the maid for making up the bed during the day. A pleased patron always proved dutiful.

Madame made no remarks about his sulky silence. Regardless whoever brought him up his tray, he did not respond. With a modest knock, she entered and set down the carafe of coffee on the table across from the piano. All windows had been opened, left ajar, breathing through the casement and tapestries.

"Will that be all, monsieur?" As it was duty to ask regardless, she paused and allowed a few seconds for the man to make any last requests. Thoughts were too lost for a moment, but the current melody playing the keys went silent.

"Can you tell me, madame, who occupies Room #14?" inquired Erik.

"Italians, I believe. Father and daughter," replied Mme. Giry.

"They're getting to be a terrible nuisance," he grimaced, "the girl especially. Every time they walk by this room, they have to bang on the door and shout some obscenities about what noise it is-Music, just noise." More or less spoken with sigh to his tone.

"I apologize for that, M. Destler. They shouldn't be here much longer."

"First time we all came face to face downstairs, she couldn't help herself staring. I'm almost ready to bribe them into going."

"Would you care for me to speak with M. Rota about it?"

"A waste of time," muttered Erik, "but if you've nothing else to do then."

"I will do what I can. After all, they're not keeping up with their expenses as they should. And the man. . . It doesn't take much drink, and he turns into a Philistine."

"If you do not succeed at that, madame, I may be capable of convincing them to keeping a safe distance."

Tease or threat? There hardly seemed a distinction; they were perhaps one and the same from him. The endeared housekeeper did not chide him.

"My agent is downstairs having breakfast. Will you ask him, when he's through, to come up and see me?"

"Of course."

For the woman had scarcely turned toward the door when from nowhere, another human body suddenly materialized. More shocking than the un-attempted effort of apology, Christine staggered before her clad full in her bed robe. Her curls spiraled out, without a comb or brush; all hung carelessly. Cheeks full flushed.

"What is going on here! What kind of sick game is this you play?" It would sound as though directed toward madame. Erik was turned, surprised. "Is this a joke, this hide and seek with your hotel guests and pretend they don't exist? Do you have fun!"

"Miss Daaé," gasped she. "Please, calm-"

"Who is making you do this? All of you- You, M. Destler, what is your interest in all this?" demanded Christine. Her eyes the same color of her face. "Why all the attention?"

Madame retreated as the man had rose, taking charge from her. "I don't understand, Christine. Everything was fine last night. Is something wrong?"

"Why are you so keen to help me?" she snapped. "What's your interest in keeping up this charade about not seeing my husband? There's no way that every single person under this roof is completely clueless-"

"Christine, what happened?" he insisted, begging-begging her to stop. Instead of anger, as she would've hoped to elicit, he sounded to her more as though terrified.

"Is there something you're not telling me? that you're afraid to tell me?"

"Nothing."

"Please, I want to know, if he's hurt, _or dead_!" Her voice wavered. "Is he dead?"

"Dead?"

"Yes! Are you all hiding him somewhere in this hotel? Why else would they lie about it!"

"Christine, stop-"

"And what of you, are you. . . You wouldn't do such a thing, would you?" she sniffled. "You wouldn't murder him. . . in cold blood-"

_Are you mad? No, I am mad. What on earth have I just said? No! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! It can't be as terrible as that! But why me? Why!_ cursed a voice. Now, too late for retraction and depleted of breath, Christine's knees landed with a thud to the ground. Doubling over, clutching at her cowardly lips, sobs throbbed her body. As she refused them release, it made for terrible pain, physical pain.

She expected, even supposed-deserved an outraged burst. In worse agonies, Christine waited for it. But it did not come out in a roar, but a growl.

"_That boy _better have good reason for doing this to you," said he.

By the forearms, he'd hoisted her back to her feet. Feeling brave, he helped sustain her unstable weight with his arms, wrapping round her waist. Each tear was heavy, and felt hot being absorbed by the sleeve and lapel. For no wonder there came such cries of pain. By instinct, hardly conscious of it, she was capable of making a stranger her friend.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it!" she shuddered, gasped. "I don't know what I was thinking. Forgive me, monsieur."

"Erik, Christine. . . Please."

"I didn't mean it."

Fortunately, she had no feeling of the chill running his veins. "I know."

"You forgive me?"

"Of course, my dear." Pulling away, as unwillingly he did so, he leveled her eyes with his own. How thankful she'd taken away his only handkerchief, leaving him with only his fingers to sweep away the drops of dew. And ungloved, no less. "But tell me, what brought this on? We seemed just fine last night. Have I said anything to upset you?"

"No. . . No, Erik, you never did," admitted Christine. "It wasn't you. I. . . I didn't keep my promise, I'm afraid. I did something very stupid."

"I should say. It did you no good. Tell me."

"I saw Isadora. . . getting ready to occupy the bathroom. So I thought, while she was out of the way, I went to her room, number seventeen. . . She caught me inside."

Shocking to her, it did not surprise him in the least. "You prying Pandora. I warned you," he sighed, yet smiled.

"Oh, she makes me sick, that woman," hissed Christine. "She taunted me. She struts and smirks about it because she knows I have nothing against her. I should've never spoken to her that night I came; whatever is going on, she's behind it somehow. . . She even had the gall to implicate you; not that I believe her for a minute, but it just. . . Oh, Erik-"

"You mustn't let her do that, work you up for nothing. I am sorry. I hope, or would hope, that I've done nothing to incur your suspicion."

"I know."

"Come and sit down, won't you?" he suggested, also with a gentle and firm insistent hand on the small of the back. "You care for coffee?"

"There couldn't be enough left for you."

"I don't care," he excused. "Please."

"Truly, what I said was uncalled for, I am sorry-"

"Let it rest, my dear."

It touched so kindly and tenderly, enough to nearly move her to tears again. Catching her breath as well as drying the flooded passages within her nose challenged her for a good few minutes. And with that time, he spent it near her, just absorbed in silent observation-no different than he had been yesterday down at the beach.

"What were you playing just as I came in?" asked Christine.

"Just another old composition of mine," he replied, shrugging over it. "It's nothing I've quite perfected, and have been attempting to for several months."

"Part of an opera?"

"Yes." Her inquiry was having a duel effect on him: a pride for his talent and a fear to reveal it. Erik backed away toward the instrument. As he had been playing on memory, he'd lost track of his sheets and bars of music before him. With a couple seconds, he'd rearranged them back into order.

"A solo?" she persisted, approached. Recalling her former career from a chorus line had answered his next question. Desire had hardly faded. The sharps and flats, the legatos, the rests, the halves and quarters drew her eyes. Had she not been standing directly behind him, Erik might've breathed more evenly. Both seated and with back turned, there was possibility-given both the chance and a little curious inclination. . . His lungs grew shallow. Even the hands hovering over the keys suffered tremors.

* * *

As her mother eagerly and viciously devoured the contents of the note, the little peach rose was being twirled in the fingers of her other hand. Her lips, framed deep and thoughtfully, pursing. How long could it possibly take for a woman to regain her capacity of speech? While words would scathe, the silence weighed more unbearably on poor Miss Giry. It would never do to fight back, a painful lesson learned from a tender age. And standing with hands clasped behind her back, Meg merely awaited her sentencing.

"Fortunate for you that neither of the managers have learned of this," snapped Mme. Giry.

"What is so wrong about it, Maman? He likes me-"

"Men of wealth, men of rank do not pay addresses to girls of no means, not with honorable intentions."

"He's not, at least thus far, behaved in any way indecently toward me."

"You cannot read his thoughts."

"Maman, he asks only to get to know me better-"

"Meg!"

"And I want to know him better myself. Please!" pleaded the girl.

"Why has he not approached me first then? That would be an indication of honor-"

"Because men don't marry the mothers, do they?"

"How very presumptuous we are!" scoffed Mme. Giry, a sarcastic nod of the head.

Just near to tears, a knocking at the door spared Meg for at least a few moments, maybe a half-hour or so. Little Jammes entered to plead that she take her shift in the dining room for a few minutes for her break. Business preceded family issues during the daylight hours. As the housekeeper, it demanded her silence and cool reserve.

"Don't think I'm finished with you," she warned, "or your fiancé H.B."

"Maman, please, don't say anything!" groaned Meg. "Don't embarrass me."

"You've already made so much a fool of yourself, I can only hope that this will pass. Of course, I don't intend on telling anyone. You dare correspond or even encourage the baron in any way, I won't be civil and silent with him for much longer. Am I understood?"

"Yes, madame."

"Now, get on out there and help Mercier and Rémy before I reconsider that haircut the mere length of your ears."

Most probably the worst injustice of the whole affair was not being allowed to even read the note before her mother confiscate it. The rose with it too. It had been left on his breakfast tray, and when collected, along with the daily tip of bed-making and straightening the room, it had made her day. After he'd gone, she waited until finished to enjoy tearing open the elegant little seal.

Catering to the Guidicelli table, while putting off her mother's remaining reprimand had to be the worst punishment imaginable. Mme. Guidicelli and her friends kept tight purses, except when it came to their games and cards. All the tea and coffee was now stale. Mme. Firman, with spidery gloved fingers, drew a cigarette from her tin box. Her daughter had come rushing toward the table, begging about an expedition into the town, which was forbidden unaccompanied. Motherhood never appeared fashionable at a table with friends; for that, Meg pitied the forlorn, neglected child that sulked away. If she could've gotten away with it, she'd have gladly manifest her displeasure with them all by a most impertinent scowl.

The last time, however, she had dared glare at a rude guest, M. Debienne as well as her mother delivered an earful.

"What can you expect? Did you know she comes from the theater?" shrugged Mme. Andre.

"Oh, well that explains everything!" retorted Mme. Firman. "I'm sure you know, Carlotta. Is that pretty common among the more lowly actors?"

"All the time," spouted the diva. "They all like the attention."

"You ever heard of a Daaé back in Paris?"

"She's not from the Opera Garnier. I would've known her. To even have one line or one dance number on my stage, you've got to have talent."

"You dears won't believe what I was told by Miss Braspuissant, from room seventeen," boasted Mme. Firman. "She actually _caught _Miss Daaé riffling through her things."

"She caught her? In the room?" gasped Mme. Andre. Carlotta made an indecipherable but distinct outcry, one of dramatized horror, as if to say Miss Daaé had caught in robbery. "She didn't seem too miffed about it, but I'm certainly surprised. This is not good."

"Not good?" echoed Carlotta. "This is outrageous! Why does she not report the little ingénue to management? You don't treat things like that as minor. Did she steal anything?"

"Not from what Isadora had mentioned. But I'd say, regardless, she ought to expose the girl. She's behaving too peculiar and suspiciously. Who knows what she may be up to, and without a care for what she does-it's rather unsettling."

"I've about had enough of her," declared Mme. Firman.

"Maybe we should go to the management ourselves," huffed Carlotta. "Let's get her kicked out of here and back to wherever she belongs."

"Oh my, my. . . Carlotta, dear, is that. . . ?" The voice dropped, and a long, simpering cloud passed Mme. Firman's lips. At the corner of her eye, and directing the eyes of her two friends, was an audacious man making eyes on the backs of their heads. "Is that an admirador

or _enamorado_?"

His shy wave of hand incited all three to girlish giggles, included with a wave of the fan from the diva. Admirer, in Carlotta's language, indeed could be pronounced with varying definitions. Although, as all were reduced to blushes and full of sighs, an aficionado looked like a lover to them.

"Isn't he dashing?" murmured Mme. Firman.

"Oh, not so loud," chided Carlotta. Remembering herself, she'd turned in her seat, suffering terribly from the vapors. "Choleti's coming down any minute."

"Poor man," chuckled Mme. Andre.

"I treat him just fine, Séraphine. I am dutiful and loyal."

"What's his name?"

"Ubaldo Piangi," Mme. Firman answered, and most confidently. "He's in theater too. From somewhere in the south of France, and he's trying to get in an audition with Firman and Andre before the season opens again in Paris."

"How would you know?"

"I met him last night before Richard came down for dinner."

"Shame, shame, shame," Mme. Andre's tongue clicked.

"Will you two control yourselves," said Carlotta. Feigning disgust of them banished her own guilt. "Honestly! I feel like I'm sitting with two schoolgirls."

"Poor Choleti," Mme. Firman repeated her taunt. "For that man's own good, he better keep his eyes to himself unless Choleti goes to duel him."

"Choleti, he wouldn't!" laughed Mme. Andre. "He'd die of shock. He'd rather die than think himself a laughingstock."

Hoping to become an audience to such a hilarious spectacle, and be caught ogling this 'handsome' one at the other table, Meg lingered near the door to the kitchen, peering out. But no husbands ever came down. What was handsome in some eyes was no more than a man of generous proportions, gleeful eyes, and a deep Italian throat born for rich singing. Nevertheless, the maid enjoyed herself for a time.

The two Persian men came down, and took themselves off to their same table in the corner. Financial papers danced between the two, while she brought them both their serving of coffee. At first, they hardly looked up at her, even to make any thank you. But she could hardly notice or care, as her ears were tuning towards the sounds descending from the upper levels. Once again, the elusive guest of #5 occupied the music room, but accompanying him to the piano, this time, was a voice.

"What on earth?" mumbled Carlotta from her seat.

"Is that Erik?" asked Darius, craning neck toward the ceiling too.

"That's him playing. That's not his singing," vouched Nadir.

Meg had been frozen and consumed in its wonder. The music. The voice. And summing it up perfectly, to be caught by Carlotta's keen hearing, Meg's lips murmured worshipfully: "It's heavenly."

"What do you do there? We're waiting for the scones; are they ready yet? Go on!" Carlotta protested, which chased the maid back into the kitchen. As if she vindicated herself from slight, her eyes rolled. "The little toad."

"Was that the girl?" whispered Darius.

His master nodded gravely. As a friend, he could just imagine Erik, the thrill and awe and ecstasy in his face. It was the voice, at last, _the voice_.

**I suppose you can guess where I picked up some of those lines used by Carlotta and the Firman & Andre wives.**

**I'll keep the next chapter on the lighter side; maybe it'll lighten me up a bit too. In fact, as Christine promised Erik, I'm meaning to incorporate the house by the sea. What would you imagine the cottage looks like, where Christine and her father lived in Perros? We know it's quaint and lovely, but what do you see?**


	8. 8: Spellbound

**Here I am again, with rallied spirits. Just FYI, I'm not a student of architecture. You'll probably see that anyway, but I do enjoy watching House Hunters International. Maybe you'll think this chapter a bit creepy. But enough said, thanks for the reviews and your input about the old, unknown Daaé house.**

~Chapter Eight: Spellbound~

"You never told me you could sing."

Christine had not had opportunity to finish the whole solo piece before his own hands were overcome by awe. The way his eyes took her in, centered squarely on her face, would seem as if he'd just witnessed a miracle. In some way, in perspective, it was a first and only for the musician. Music had been life; just about nothing that Erik composed could not be unpublished. It had gone into concert halls, theaters, played in the most prominent orchestras of the country. When there were lyrics, the best and most talented performed from the stage. But all the glory and fame to be got by the music was impersonal.

No one had actually stood in his presence privately and sung his music, especially no woman. Heaven opened through her throat. And for the life of him, Erik could hardly feel his fingers moving to each note and chord. Whether or not they made music at all, he could scarcely comprehend with the instrument standing over his shoulder. Honey, caramel, and wine blended together did not compare in sweetness to its sound. But of course, it was not without imperfection. There was some difficulty for Christine achieving accuracy in the upper register. Lack of practice must've account for it.

Yet, Erik took a good moment to compose before speaking. To force words any sooner, he could hardly have expressed himself coherently.

"I know it's. . . I've not practiced for some time. It's different from rehearsing with a whole chorus-"

"What kind of idiot is your theater manager to limit you to a chorus line?"

"You. . . You liked it, Erik?"

"Liked it?" he cried surprised. "You don't know? You're brilliant, Christine! I've never heard anything like it." But catching himself, fearing to be too eager, he forced himself to pause. "You've had good training, I see. You are talented, but, as you said, you've neglected it."

"True," she agreed.

"I take it," he surmised, with his hands pressed together and his two front fingers thoughtfully resting on his lower lip, "the chorus does not require as much effort, and you saw no reason to pursue your education further?"

"That's about the size of things," mumbled Christine. "But it's not that I thought my skill too superior, but sufficient. My talent was enough to have gotten me a part in the chorus."

"But you did not pursue it further?"

"I've auditioned for higher roles, occasionally, only to be passed for others with more experience."

"Experience you lack, but you have the quality of voice to exceed far beyond your years." With this, he rose from the bench. Her posture of the shoulders and breathing would require attention; throughout the song, she had subtly become aware of these things. She'd attempted to straighten and make proper use of the lungs as both her father and late tutor had instructed. Such basics would assist. It would be a mere matter of picking up where they'd all left off.

If only, of course, Erik could summon the desire and determination to continue. Realizing this made him look pleading in the eyes.

"Christine, we have not known each other long. I understand. But honestly, you need some regular instruction again, desperately. I've never taken on any students, but if you'd be willing to work and take advice, I would like to offer myself as your coach."

"Oh, Erik. That is. . ." Though she swallowed, her throat was too dry. "I appreciate that very much, Erik. I am flattered, but I don't know if Raoul would allow that."

"Your husband?" he stiffened.

"Well, you see-"

"Why should he not?" he demanded, chilled by the hesitation.

"As I am married, there really is no need to continue my profession on any stage. He might think it improper."

"Why is that?"

"Well, he did mention his brother. He's from a noble family, and our engagement, our wedding was all a great secret. His older brother doesn't even know about it yet. He had been afraid that there'd be uproar over him marrying me. And it is not looked on well or dignified of a woman in high classes to perform, or to make a living. Raoul. . . had been specific about that. I would have to quit the theater if we were to return to his family and present ourselves to his family decently."

"I did not ask what he wanted, Christine. Do you want to continue singing?"

"I shall always enjoy singing, Erik. But would it not be a waste of time for a man like you to spend your time on a student who does not intend to progress their career in it?"

"While that is unfortunate," he breathed, "that is not all that matters."

"Indeed?" Unable to help her slight slip of a smile, he managed to amaze her once again. "That's quite an uncommon opinion, in your field."

"You love to sing. Why should you let your voice be wasted? At least, you will have it to treasure. A husband should not dictate that."

"I would not displease him."

"I'm not asking that. I am not thinking of him, Christine. It's my only wish that you please yourself," he reassured. "Would you-if you will accept. . . Or rather, if you would care to accept, I would be willing to teach you."

Before any answer came, it was deliberated. Through her eyes, clearly, a half of her wanted so badly to grant permission. "Let me think about it," she requested. "While I would like that very much, I can't really concentrate on my singing for the time being."

"Of course," he sighed. It wasn't a refusal, one consolation for Erik.

For all the while, time had slowed and stilled confined to the same room with her. Perhaps she did not mean to imprison him, but when someone came knocking at the door, requesting entry, it broke the spell that Christine had cast on him. The sight of Nadir invoked an ungrateful, hardened glare. It wasn't to be expected the dear girl with her angelic vocal chords could be kept all to himself for much longer.

"Forgive the intrusion," the man said, clearing his throat. "And how are you? Is it Mlle. Daaé?"

"Yes, or as was, monsieur," she sighed. "I know we've met, but what is your name again?"

"It's Khan. Nadir Khan." The hands were shaken perfunctorily. "I couldn't help overhear, but am I right? Was that you we all heard singing?"

Christine blushed. "Was I very loud? I'm sorry."

"What? Don't apologize!" laughed Nadir. "What a treat, I thought! And figuring you were here with my friend here. . . What did you think, Erik?"

"Yes," nodded Erik sulkily. "She's marvelous, Daroga. Very talented."

"I hate to bother you both during performance, but Erik, I did as you asked. I've rang up the realty office. They said they have a few things they could show you."

"Realty?" said Christine incredulously.

"Did you tell them I do not need showing about?" asked Erik.

"Well, that's not how it's usually done, but I managed to get a list of addresses. They have no problem with you going and having a look at them. Each house is vacant."

"Are you looking for property in Perros, Erik?" asked Christine.

"It's just shopping," shrugged Erik. "I've been in the market for something for awhile. Paris only requires my attention for a couple months of the whole year."

"Should I ring downstairs and ask for them to call a cab?" asked Nadir.

"That won't be necessary, Nadir."

"But. . . this time of day, there are plenty people-"

"If it does not matter to me, you need not worry," snapped Erik.

The air changed drastically where men were annoyed and angered. Sensing what was to come, Christine turned to the older, foreign gentleman.

"May I ask, M. Khan, where are these houses located?"

"I can't recall them off the top of my head. I wrote them down. But I believe there were three. One on Allée Pêche, one on Dernier Nuage, and another on Voie Tremblante."

"That doesn't sound like very public walking," observed she. "These roads are more out of the way of town, and less likely traveled this time of day." Both men shot glances of raised brows. "And it's not far walking either. The farthest would be Dernier Nuage, which would be no more than twenty or thirty minutes."

All of that being said, she had by willingly volunteering, unwittingly chosen how she'd be spending the remainder of her day.

* * *

Christine was a little girl again, without care about the next day, the next hour, as if her father were still alive and Raoul walked alongside them on the roads. Erik simply followed, absorbed in details of her childhood memories. Their timing of year was perfect, to be able to walk at leisure without suffering the heat. She wore a fashionable straw hat bought from Paris, keeping direct sunlight off the eyes. That wasn't to protect her, however, from getting a tan. The cap sleeves of her two-piece white and blue habit could not be worn in anything but summertime.

Their nearly disastrous clash in the music room earlier seemed to have faded. Certain trees and shrubs brought them into frequent encounters with various butterflies. Erik couldn't help smiling as-for nearly twenty yards-Christine obliviously carried a passenger on one of her long locks left hanging behind her shoulders. As much as she adored the sight of the wildflowers, none were picked. Erik considered the ridiculous way young lovers would pick flowers, and the girls perched them just so behind the ear. But considering it something likely of her husband to do, or would have done, he sullenly refrained.

Walking and touring empty houses seemed none too subtle. Though it wasn't the intention, it might've easily been taken the wrong way. Christine showed no sign of discomfort about it. She showed the way to each house, and they each had something to remark on about with all its different features. Seclusion was perhaps the only trait shared in common with each property. The first stood three stories high, boasting eight rooms, and a stretch of green some five acres. Its size alone had pretty much decided Erik against it. As a whole, it would've better suit the tastes of a large family with a love of society and much entertaining. Christine admired its dance hall, but personally, it would not attract her into buying such a house either.

The second house, situated nearer to the avenue, was engulfed by ivy, with a ring of palms surrounding the property itself. Though fifteen acres, this one, the majority of it was thick with trees and bramble, and the ground sloped steeply. The house itself, unlike the others, should content its residents for comfort. Imagining himself the only resident, Erik could have seen himself settled, but beyond himself. . . Yes, a dangerous thought. With each stop, there was something new, a new discovery into Christine's tastes and mind. While she wasn't versed in the world of architecture, certain aspects about a house caught her eye. She liked brick on the walls outside, but to have trees growing around it added to its perfection. The terrace was preferable to the salon, where most mistresses of the house would seek refuge. If the property could offer prospects for a nice garden, she found that to its credit.

Palm trees luxuriated the look of a house, especially growing near the building or up by the road, like the third house. But to have an establishment sitting lone atop a hill, she expressed it as uncomfortable, or ostentatious vantage point.

"It's a beautiful view, but I wouldn't like living in a house that makes you feel like a queen of the world."

The first thing that drew Christine, in any room, was the windows: their height, their width, if it had an alcove, how easy would it be to clean, where it actually faced. All these weighed her opinions. The marble tile of the main hallway and its large white pillars, though breathtaking, again inspired more Christine's uneasiness than admiration.

"They become a grander house," agreed Erik.

"What's the most important to you, besides the room that would house your piano?"

"I like generous walls, plenty of space for artwork."

"Any one master in particular?" she asked.

Her only answer was a shrug of his shoulders, as he was investigating the condition of the banister up the stairs. On the opposite end, Christine vocalized her opinions more than Erik did about any room or house. He either agreed with her, or nodded; if he merely nod, she could only guess that he was being polite by not objecting.

"I like the very, very tall front door," Christine tested him. "I suppose Goliath would be able to fit."

"Yes. . ."

"You like it?"

"Like it?"

"The front door," chuckled Christine.

"It's. . . interesting."

At this, her head shook with her laughter.

"What's so amusing?" he puzzled.

"You, I can't make out what you like or don't like," she noted. "You're neither here or there about anything."

"I know what I like," he answered simply. To her disappointment, her source of fun and teasing did not prove contagious. "So you are sarcastic about the front door?"

"I was trying to find something you'd think distasteful."

"Why?"

"Why else, but to make you give your honest opinion of it."

A hopeless endeavor. Nothing about either three houses struck with Erik as a home. There were its fine points and those less savory; any house is like any human being. Not every quality was something desirable. Roofs, walls, and floors could easily undergo remodel. People can change, if they are intent to do so. But Christine turned her back and walked from the front to the drawing room, to a west-facing window.

It should be a strange house to have no windows. It could be the most comfortable, the largest and most handsomely furnished house, but dull and depressing without an opening for air and light. . . Something felt closed.

Erik followed after a few seconds, eager to follow wherever her eyes went next. Her gaze went down closer to the shores, probably half a mile away and down the hills and other houses. A copse of beech and hornbeam, clustering near the pink granite cliffs, stretched tenaciously toward a little rose house. For it appeared to sit just above the sands. Its surrounding verdure grew lush, tinctured by crimson and mauve-growing straight up to the house itself. While Christine did not comment, deep, unspoken feelings rose unbidden to her curved lip. Erik saw home in her eyes.

He already loved it, even from the distance. He loved it for what it represent to her.

The road to the old house had grown full of holes and little ditches, in comparison with her memories. A peril to any horse, but once traversed, the short walk to the front of the house was smooth gravel. Here and there, standing off and distinctly separate from the groves, a few palm trees had been allowed to root strong into the ground, more plentiful closer to the beach. The roof was composed of dark shingle, and the brick and stuccos a dull, almost grayish pink. It belonged to an older time, though the charm be timeless. A pair of palms grew into a sort of shadow overhanging the front door. Since leaving, only a few more tenants it seemed had taken up occupancy. Any thoughts of care and maintenance for the place had evidently never crossed their mind.

"Are you sure it's vacant?" questioned Christine. Her brow furrowed as Erik sought help from his kit of lock-picking instruments. "I take you've done this before?"

"This is the same way I acquired the guestbook," he retorted. "There are two broken windows, and these weeds here are three feet tall. Nobody's living here."

The interior looked almost as deplorable as its exterior. This house, as a person, would be a dignified little, old lady compared with the newer, more stylish designs of the neighborhood. Aged and worn, but still holding traces of days when it was more lively and beautiful. Christine's pitying eyes grazed the ragged, moth-eaten furniture, and lamented the layers of dust that laden the mantel. Charcoaled wood still sat in the grate, with ash spilling over. One gentle poke and a third of the black shell crumbled.

Christine rubbed the ash between a couple fingers, raising it to her nose.

"It's fir," she said. "Fir never burned very well."

"I can just imagine what it once was," sighed Erik. Out of the shattered panes, beyond the wind-thrashed drapes and ruined wood, a lush carpet of violets and poppy spread the grass. A young, happy child had played in them. When she'd rolled down the hill, he could see Christine, her scrawny figure, coming back up over the slope with her hair tangled with red and purple. A bitter, earthy odor rose from them.

"Father scolded me one day when I attempted to pick them all," she recalled. "And I tried to bring them all inside, filling every corner, cranny, and vase I could possibly find. How selfish of me not to think about the next generation."

"Selfish?" scoffed Erik.

"Well, all these flowers drop their seed before they die off. And they've got to be able to drop the seeds so that they'll keep growing here."

"Winds can also bring them from other areas," said Erik. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For this-what it's become."

"Oh Erik, it's just a cottage. It is sad, but it happens. It's not like Father and I could've done anything about it. We had no money to keep this place permanently. For what little time it was ours, though, it forced us to make the most of it. Would you like to go down to the beach? Over this way, there's a private stairway."

"I should think you would be famished after our trek," he remarked, with some surprise. "It's almost three."

"I'm not hungry."

"We ought to head back, Christine. If you're not to eat, you shouldn't be expending yourself like this," he reproached her dutifully.

"Well. . . if you are hungry, we might head into the village, find a little café-Oh, I'm sorry," she halted, blushing. "You said you wanted to stay out of public."

"When it can be avoided, but if it would. . . Why? Are you afraid-"

"No, I'm not," she denied. "I'm not afraid, but I'd like to stay out of that hotel as much as possible. . . When I find Raoul, I'm checking out the same minute. Should be a relief for them, and for you too. You wouldn't have to be following me about at every turn, have to bear me accusing you of outrageous-"

"I'm not a charitable man, Christine," he replied coldly, "if you have not seen that already. So rest assured, I am not tolerating your company, or pitying your loneliness." The eyes just happened to fall on the doorframe to what used to be the kitchen. On each side, someone had left deep pencil marks. "What's this?"

"Oh! It's-I can't believe it's still there!" laughed Christine. "Erik, this is where-when Raoul and I were playing together all the time-my father would mark our growth on the wall. Raoul was here on the right, and I was here on the left." As it would happen, these were the same stances during the wedding ceremony: bride on the left, groom on the right. Erik blinked slow, suppressing some dull pain.

"We both grew quite a bit that summer. Raoul more than me," she said.

The boy's writing, if it was his indeed, looked rather poorly. The R was prominent, while the rest of the letters came out in scrawl. The lower case de, pitiful. The Ch of Chagny were the only intelligible letters. Christine's hand had been neater. Of course, no pencil is steady on wood, but two were day and night compared side by side. Christine Daaé.

"I suppose Father should've known better than to take such liberties with a house that wasn't his own, but the owner never mentioned a thing to us about it."

"Peculiar."

"What?"

"Never heard of. . . Is it common of fathers and mothers doing this sort of thing?"

"What, measuring on the wall? Oh yes, it's very. . ." To her own regret, Christine's remainder of a thought broke away awkwardly. He did not know what was common. _Is that possible? Was he-he must've been an orphan. Or perhaps, neither one of them, mother or father, thought to do it. Wouldn't they enjoy watching their own boy grow up? _"Erik, did not your mother or father ever do it with you?"

"I don't recall."

"You don't recall?"

"No, Christine," he replied more definitely, curtly. "No. It's a bit ridiculous really."

"I'm sorry. . . Well, I suppose if you'd rather go back. . ."

As she moved and headed for the front door, he did not follow. Erik stood in the same place, with eyes still fixed on Christine's measuring side of the doorframe. Sometimes, his silence seemed mere reluctance or embarrassment. When Christine called him and had no reply, gentleness had waned from his eyes. The mouth matched the expression of those eyes, rendering her blood to ice.

"What? What's wrong?" she whispered. "Erik?"

His head whipped at her quickly. "Christine."

"Yes?" she swallowed.

"Tell me, how do you spell your last name? your maiden name?"

"D-a-a-e."

"And when you used to sign your name, the e had an accent mark on it, right?"

"W-yes. My father signed the same way."

"Just like here, on the wall?"

"Yes. Why, Erik?"

"I just remembered," he nodded, "your name in the guestbook, signed in your maiden name, there was no accent mark on the e."

Her breath seemed to visibly falter a second. Her blink was slow, shocked, and a hand rose to her mouth. Only a matter of seconds, that's all it took for Erik to rob the tan and rose of her cheek and turn her pallid.

"I. . . I didn't-I never noticed it before," she muttered. "Someone forged it-"

"Or tried to," he asserted. "I'm starting to think it would be wise if you check out of Premier Jour d'été."

** Allée Pêche (Pink Walk), Dernier Nuage (Last Cloud), Voie Tremblante (Quivering Lane).**

**I hide behind the title of fiction to invent a little bit of the old town Perros, and give its roads and lanes my own ideas. I don't own anything. Other than that, what did you think of the house? Could definitely use work yes. If this were more romance than mystery, I'd say Erik would buy it and do a total makeover.**


	9. 9: Rear Window

**Thanks for waiting. I'm very proud of this chapter, for it's length and my great effort into writing it. As a note to Wordsmith, I've looked back and seen exactly what you mean, about 'labored' dialogue. I've done my best to eliminate that, or at least, curtail that with this update. And thanks everyone for the encouragement.**

**One of my favorite movies of Hitchcock is _Rear Window_. My titles have nothing to do with the actual plot of his movies. If you reader haven't seen his movies, you deny yourself a great movie experience!**

~Chapter Nine: Rear Window~

"Oh no, I couldn't-"

"Christine, I would not have you stay-"

"Erik, please understand. I will not leave that place until I find him," she insisted. "I don't care what torments I suffer under that roof. I could not abandon Raoul to whatever to whatever, or whoever, holds him against his will."

"But if you should lose your own free will, Christine. . ."

"Would you resign to fear for yourself if your wife were a captive?"

It wasn't until much later that Christine saw reason to repent her choice of words. There was apparently never a wife, and unlikely would there ever be. It would've explained the lost, wounded expression that contorted his face so; he'd turned his back to her, facing the lawn and wildflowers. From her angle, nothing more could be seen of his face than the masked side, which never moved or changed to moods. If any word gave offense, it wasn't visible.

In a voice, attempting to compose himself, breathed near her ear, though Erik stood at a distance. "I only wish you to be safe, Christine."

_How else would I receive Raoul's next note if I checked out?_ thought she. Her husband may not be able to contact her by any other means outside the hotel. While not insensitive to her own welfare, that concern did not outweigh the anxiety for him. Now, it would seem too late to tell anymore to Erik, to tell him how her heart, her very sanity depended on hearing from Raoul again. The tide would not go out or rise without the direction of the moon.

"I know, Erik. Because of that, I've come to trust you."

". . . So be it then," he sighed. "If you will not be removed from the danger, then I cannot stop you. . . Come then, we must return."

"So, if someone-since someone has indeed forged my signature, what will this mean? What next?" asked Christine.

"Well, to say forged," noted Erik, "would imply that this person tried to copy you, your style. Do me a favor; let me see your own signature."

Christine was presented a blank page from his own pocket book. To the best of ability, with little room to write and a small pencil, she sketched the letters. Though until he spoke and saw it for himself, little of it was understood.

"Is it a forgery?"

"No," he said. "Well, just because they used your name, doesn't necessarily. . . I remember the signature in the guestbook. It's not exactly the same. Both your writing and the signer's was neat and steady. But if you ask me, it wasn't the idea of the signer to imitate you. The whole point of putting your name in guestbook was to establish the fact that you're an unmarried woman and came alone."

"Would you suppose that whoever is responsible, are they staying in the hotel?"

"The woman in number seventeen, Isadora. . . Before she was there, she was in staying in room ten."

Against her will, Christine felt a filling hope inside. "There's something to that, isn't there?"

"There's no other way in or out of Room Ten, except the door."

"But it's. . . Would she have a key? How could she though? Changing rooms, Mme. Giry would have taken back the Room Ten key."

"The original key, but a copy of the key could've been made."

"We find that key, we can prove she's lying!" she gasped. The very thought made her wild and feverish in the eyes, and having voiced his suspicion, Erik regret how it effect her.

"From now on, Christine, I want to be with you each step of the way. What you did this morning, confronting her, was rather dangerous. If you cannot help yourself, how can I keep you informed not trusting you?"

"I am sorry for that."

"From now on," warned he, "don't try to confront her. Don't even let on what you know. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Erik. But what about the key, if she has made a copy of that hotel key? Do we try to find it?"

"That will help you, but it will not get you any closer to finding your husband. What we should do is try to find out if she removed any page from the guestbook, where he actually signed. Either that, or we could find out what happened to that telegram he sent."

"True. Unless, of course, she could've destroyed them. That would be the sensible thing to do: get rid of the evidence."

"More than likely," agreed Erik. "But if there's a chance she didn't, then we still have a chance to find them. What we can do, however, is try to prove she wrote your name in the book herself. If we have examples of her own handwriting, compared alongside that phony signature, we at least have something to approach M. Miford with, proving that she's lied-"

"But how will we do that?"

* * *

A misty fog rolled in later in the evening, bringing darkness sooner. Looking out across the water, gray stretched the length of the hazy horizon, northward and from east to west. Halos grew round the outdoor lanterns, all along the exterior of the restaurant. Waiters milled through their throng of patrons. So many had been out during the day, sunbathing and swimming; the majority were sporting varying shades of tan and red. And all of the activity in the sun stirred many a hearty appetite: an appetite for lobster, bass, duck. Fragrant herbs left trails of their scent from table to table. Foie gras was delivered covered, and when exposed, a high cloud of steam rushed the person's face. The fine wines, flowing in abundance, raised the volumes of some patrons.

While all finery and opulence, perfection-from food to service-it hardly suit the ideals of two people who desired peace and solitude.

Christine blushed in modesty as Erik spent without thought. They were maneuvered through the noise, as the waiter-their guide in a jungle-paved for them a path. A narrow hallway brought them to a very close door, but once opened, a spacious room appeared before them. No one had lit the candles yet. The room was as dark and gray as the outside air. The man so graciously overpaid and tipped remedied their lack of light quickly, turning the gaslights on the wall. Using one of the table's candlesticks, he lit the remainder of the candelabra.

Making a promise to bring back menus and take orders, the two were alone once again. It wasn't the same as being alone, as they had been during the day. Erik resisted the terrible temptation, to take one of her arms as was custom of the gentlemen, and to have herself be willingly led and escorted. It might've appeared strange to others, that two strangers should sit down to dinner.

"I can't believe we were able to get in on such short notice," remarked Christine. "Usually, we would need a reservation for a place like this."

Erik had changed since returning to the hotel, and certainly dressed for the occasion. While not exactly the preference and style of most men, his tastes distinguished him. This was not a creature enslaved by fashions, by the turning of seasons and monthly catalogues from Paris. It was difficult now to picture the man in anything but black and white accents, but the splash of ivory blue in the waistcoat proved him a man of elegance, just as much as a man of means. She was brought here with the intent to be spent on.

"Should you like to sit down?" he asked.

"Well, should we?" doubted Christine. "From how you spoke, I had wondered how long we would be here."

"I would not have asked you to come simply to tease your hunger," he replied. By the way he chuckled, he perceived her discomfort, perhaps even betraying some of his own. But afraid to worsen the awkwardness, Christine complied to his invitation, easing into the chair that had been pulled out for her. Yet, Erik did not sit. To her right, toward the east-facing windows, he gazed back in the direction of the balcony, the open windows, and the public tables inside the restaurant. Whether distracted or deciding to ignore her, Christine puzzled over him. How was it at times he could hover so close and familiarly, then withdraw to such a cold distance? Men known to be in love would not give the woman an inch if they could help it.

"Have you been here before?" Christine attempted.

"No, have you?"

"Never."

". . ."

"Anything in particular on the menu you favor?" Remembering the picnic, and the slight encumbrance of his mask, no veal or pasta dish would be coming to his plate.

"Have you learned anything else since this afternoon?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, from what you said, Erik, being that it was very important that I have dinner with you this evening, I imagine something has happened."

"In good time, my dear," he assured, but in a voice very like a cat's purr. "We've yet to expect another here tonight."

"To join us?"

"No. But she will be here. We've yet to see if she'll be dining alone."

"She? Do you mean. . . Isadora?"

As he predicted, this nearly had her jumping out of her chair. What could she do? And how would an outing possibly be enjoyable with all that was racing her mind? Erik soothed any worries, suavely motioning her to keep her seat.

"There's nothing to see yet," he said.

"How do you know she'll be coming?"

"Darius may have learned something about her plans this afternoon, while we were out. I'm sorry, though, I can't say with any certainty that we'll be seeing her."

"Oh."

Since it didn't serve anything but to agitate her by standing, Erik allowed himself to take his place across the table from her. The view between the candle array was enchanting, especially with her top curls pulled back. The material dressing her shoulders seemed a cross between pink and yellow. He did not know that, as she had been dressing for the evening, she'd given a thought to a fixing a white rose in back with the hair comb. That whim faded quickly. Even so, to be as they were, to have every handsome feature set against the candlelight, might be the closest thing a man could envision to an angel.

But to render such beauty crestfallen, to disappoint her, it nicked a piece of his own heart.

"We will find out in time, if she will be here."

"Would you suppose a woman capable of doing real harm to a man?" asked Christine.

"I don't put anything past a woman. It's a shame not all have your good nature. But with criminals, women are as equally capable as men of heinous acts."

"You speak from experience?"

This provoked a shuddering swallow through his throat, even to bend his eyes low to the table. "Trust me, I can account for it," he answered dismally. "Unfortunately, my better experiences with the human race are far less than the bad. Leave it at that."

"I take it this was in Persia?"

"How do you know?"

"I assume that's where you would've met your two friends."

"Yes. But for your sake, Christine, some things are better left unsaid about me."

"Forgive me."

". . . I will not. It's no matter of my forgiving you. I should be forgiven for what things I don't tell you," he sighed. "And I am not foolish enough to expect such compassion from you."

"Goodness, what could you have done?" gasped she. "Well, never mind. . . I'm sorry. But. . . Well, just tell me, do you imply that I should not trust you?"

"I do not imply it."

"Should I not trust you?"

". . ."

"Erik, I will respect your wish. I'm not forgiving you, just merely overlooking it, whatever it is, whatever it was that you call unredeemable," said Christine. "As I see things, you've been nothing but a friend and of great service to me thus far. I am grateful."

"I know you are, my dear."

"The past has nothing to do with us right now."

"No. . ."

"I just wish I could know you."

Thankfully, the waiter arrived, bring a platter of two water glasses. A list of wines were named and advertised for the both of them. Since she could only shrug and refuse to give any preference, Erik chose a blackcurrant wine. He made no glances at the waiter. Everyone observed the mask and stared. What was the use fighting it? His choice was random, only to send the interloper on his way.

Gripping both knees beneath the table, only then, did he realize the clamminess, the tremor of his hands.

"What exactly do you wish to know?"

"Do you consider it prying," she smiled, "if I ask about anything from childhood? Or is that too much?"

"Childhood? About me?"

"If you do not mind."

"What is it then?" His lungs appeared to inflate laboriously, which almost had her second guessing.

"Did your mother ever mark your growth on the wall when you were little? When we were at the cottage, and looking at my marks on the wall. . . It seemed as if that sort of thing were strange to you."

"No, not strange. I thought it very endearing."

"Have you good memories from your mother and father?"

"There was no father. There was only my mother and myself, and sometimes a servant."

"Well, was there anything special you shared with her?"

"Special. . . Unique, perhaps, for lack of a better word," he rephrased. "I was treated very, well. . . particular, very different than most children would be used to, anyway." Squaring the shoulders, raising his head, he forced himself determinedly. "My mother was generous. She let me have my own way. As an only child, I was given the largest room in the house. And unlike most unfortunate boys, I was never inhibited by a bedtime. I was allowed to go to bed at any hour and rise whenever I wished. The piano in our parlor was always at my disposal, day or night. As you may have noticed, my fondness for it-If I were not sharing a roof with anybody, my playing could go on into the night."

His boasting continued. "Many times, I'd sneak out of the house. No one ever caught me. No one reprimanded me. I stole chocolate when my mother was out. I read any book I could get my hands on. What else? I had my own pet dog."

"Only a dog? I'd have thought you'd have a pony," retorted Christine, heavily marked with sarcasm. Suspicions churned in her soft expression.

"Mother could not have afforded a pony," he said, swallowing. "But I was rather fond of my old dog. She followed me anywhere. . . What more can I tell you? Those early years are rather dull. . . Some may call me a spoiled child, but it wasn't so much that I was spoiled as indulged."

"People who are indulged as children do not usually turn out so cultured and mannerly, which I can see that you are just that." Christine's eyes shrunk with scrutiny.

"Isn't that everything a child could wish for?" he shrugged. "Doesn't every child enjoy having his own way?"

"Did you?"

". . ."

"That's why I trust you, Erik. You aren't a liar. Though you try, you're not succeeding. You would like me to believe that sad story, wouldn't you?"

It might've been the cast or angle of the candle against his eyes to give her the suspicion. Orphans had the same look to their eyes. Beggar children did not come across half as pathetic as what secret hurts glazed the eyes of the man before her. Nothing about his words or expression cold sell such an exaggerated rendition of his childhood.

"What is there worth knowing?" shrugged Erik.

"I think I know something that explains a lot about the person you are today. I am so sorry you never knew better. You certainly deserved a lot more out of your life."

"You just take it in stride."

"So you had the largest room in the house. Where was that?"

". . . The attic."

"Your pet was your only companion?"

". . . Yes."

"And your mother, she didn't care about you, did she?" In those eyes, lit and reflecting the candle's flames, all the sadness of the world flickered with each guess. "How terrible."

". . ."

"Why?"

"Instead of a son, she discovered she gave birth to an infant. . . well. . . The midwife described it, in her own words, with a half-dead face."

His rising and retreat to the window instantly panged her, shamed her to have met a painful boundary. Oh, he seemed stern, his voice chilled in quality, but from the reflection in the glass, Christine glimpsed the vigorous struggle in the 'living' half of his face, as he withheld tears. He combat himself by staring numbly into the lapping waters below, as if the sea would consume the salt of his wounds.

"Forgive me. I had no idea," mumbled Christine. "Is there anything I might say that will relieve you? I didn't know my asking questions would bring up such painful memories."

"Do not apologize. It's no fault of yours. Erik can remember. . . I can remember those things, at any time, any day, without the help of others. No, you meant no offense. I understand."

"I won't ask anymore."

"You are a peculiar woman, Christine. Too kind."

"No more than you have been, Erik."

Little could she know what she inflicted. Never used to anything so gentle on his ears or anything close to care for his own wellbeing, she had nearly broke his floodgates. Then, with another knocking at the door, Christine heartily welcomed the distraction. While expecting the return of the waiter, the appearance of Darius surprised them both.

"Well?" demanded Erik.

"I was right, M. Destler," declared the servant, triumphantly. "The lady Isadora is here. She's just four tables away from mine."

"Is this good news for us?" said Christine. To Erik she looked with hope igniting her face.

"Very good, Darius," replied Erik. "You shall be rewarded extra for tonight, and I'll pay your bill for dinner."

Leaving with abundant but shy thanks, the elegantly, dressed foreigner bowed to them both and made a swift departure.

"What happens now? What do you intend to do?"

"Only what you will allow me," answered Erik. A wicked grin accompanied a nod, and visible left eyebrow arched cunningly. "Let us suppose she does have her own copy of a key to your room. She can go in and take whatever she wants, whenever she pleases. Or someone may be giving her orders."

"Does she work for someone, you think?"

"We'll see. I'm going to find that out now. Now, what I mean to do, is make her think I know what she knows, and I know who she knows. And she'll do what I say or else. It'll get her to panic."

"That seems smart," agreed Christine. "But what will you tell her, exactly?"

"Like I said, I will only say what you allow me." By this point, the man was putting his gloves back on.

* * *

Judging from where the waiter had placed her, the infamous lady under suspicion intended to meet with someone that evening. She tried not to allow her eyes to roam about, though unable to help furtive glances. A delectable chardonnay moved between the table and her lips every ten seconds, precisely. The décolletage of the dress dipped scandalously low, with rather insignificant straps of material hugging the forearms. Lying heavy over the region where her heart should've been, an ostentatious array of diamonds and rubies fit snug against the neck.

Money. It was her love and companion. It was her food and drink. She smelled of money.

_Nine times out of ten_, thought Erik, _money is the reason for everything._

To travel as she boasted she did, to spend, to dine in the restaurants and lodge in hotels that she did abroad would require a steady, lavish flow. From a distance, he took his sketch before making the slow, predatory approach. To be the source of distress to the angelic heart and human feeling of Christine, she was about to suffer without escape.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," purred Erik.

"Oh my, this is a surprise," she responded. Though a little flustered, her shoulders squared and her head tilt back. The woman didn't show any weakness. "You must be a neighbor of mine, aren't you? Haven't I seen you at the _Premier Jour d'été Hôtel_?"

"Yes, I believe so. What is your name again?"

"Isadora Braspuissant. And your name?"

"Destler."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. . . M. Destler." Her pleasure was being thwarted a little as the masked man welcomed himself into the opposite chair. "I'm sorry I do not have more time, but you see, I'm actually expecting someone-"

"Oh, not to worry. I'll leave when he arrives, mademoiselle," Erik promised.

"That does sound charming, M. Destler. But if you don't mind, and no offense to you, but I would prefer to be alone until he shows up."

"I'm afraid I bring you bad tidings then." He paused to observe a reaction. "He sent me to tell you he won't be able to come."

"What? He sent you, to tell me?"

"Yes, some. . . complications regarding Miss Daaé have prevented him from keeping his engagement."

". . . I'm afraid I don't what you're talking about." As expected, this did not incite a very forthcoming reaction. Confusion held a danger of making the enemy cautious. For as long as possible, Erik maintained an amiable manner. "If he had any important to say, he would not inform me by way of a messenger. I believe-"

"I'm afraid that has changed," he murmured darkly.

"How so?"

". . . He certainly didn't exaggerate what he told me about you, dear mademoiselle. You are very. . . attractive. Very close to his heart. And very indebted to him, no doubt. But as of late, he's beginning to think that his confidence in you has been somewhat. . . How shall I put it? Misplaced."

"How do you know of him? He would not bring in a third party without consulting me."

"Which demonstrates his lack of trust, evidently," sneered Erik. "He asked me to keep a watch on you. Are you trying to help him, or are you in this for your own interests?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she repeated, fervently. "This is between him and myself only. We understand each other perfectly."

". . . If you say so."

"Why don't you wipe that smile off your face. You know nothing. And I have half a mind to call for the manager to escort you out if you do not leave."

"What was the idea behind signing under the name Daaé?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Why did you sign the book under the girl's maiden name?"

"How did-?"

"Your beloved," Erik drawled on the syllables. "He showed me himself. You apparently did not take instructions correctly. He didn't want the girl signed under Daaé."

"Impossible!"

"That is your writing. There's no denying it."

"You're a liar, monsieur. I was not told _to sign _for her. _He did that himself_."

". . . He signed as de Chagny," tested Erik. Now this, finally, struck paralysis. "He signed under her married name, de Chagny."

"But. . . But why should he do that?" Isadora swallowed.

"Because who is Daaé? Until the girl married, she was really nothing to the world. But as a de Chagny, the Vicomtesse de Chagny, she now has high monetary value. I don't know why you didn't see that."

"But how? Why? I. . . It's a mistake. He said he signed under her maiden name, Daaé."

"Well, apparently, someone did, and it wasn't him."

"Are you saying someone else signed? She certainly didn't sign the guestbook?"

"He knows your writing, Miss Braspuissant. If you didn't forge her signature, then who did? Come on now, who else?"

"How should I know? Maybe she signed it!"

"I don't think so. Neither does he."

Her breath, growing rapid and taking little time to draw breath between sentences, was beginning to exhaust. Towards the windows and the road and the door, her eyes darted. There was a frantic desire to run, but that frightful aspect, his strange leer, felt like strangulation, slow and painful.

"T-Then answer me this," she said, a forced, ineffectual challenge. "Why does he suspect I would've signed it?"

"Because you know her name, the day she came, the hour she arrived. Who else would know Miss Daaé so well. You know everything." Several times over, her lips were opening and closing, shocked and stupefied. Erik almost enjoyed it too much that one last detail was nearly forgotten. "But he made one minor oversight, which has turned out to be your biggest mistake."

"What mistake? Or what do you suppose?"

"You spelled her name correctly, but you failed to make the accent mark over the e in Daaé. Now the girl is going to be able to prove that signature a forgery."

Her teeth grit together. "She can't prove anything to anybody, except that she's mad!"

"We're past all thought of if or when," growled Erik. "What I want to know is how much do you expect of all this."

"H-How much? You mean, money? Is that what this boils down to?"

"I want twenty-five percent."

"Are you joking? What makes you think-"

"I'm not settling for less, mademoiselle. I want a fourth of your profit, or I shall approach your beloved and tell him all his suspicions about you were justified. Or better yet, I might just go to the police."

"You. . . You couldn't do that. I could just as easily turn and go to the police with my own story. Nobody tolerates a man threatening a woman. If I screamed murder right now, you are done for, I warn you."

"Scream then if you want," growled Erik. "You go to anyone, tell them anything you please. I'll tear apart your every lie one by one."

"Alright, alright. . . You'll have twenty-five percent, but I don't know how much money we're to expect. We just know it's a fortune. Shall that satisfy you for now, M. Destler?"

"There is something I want more, though. If you give me an answer, I might forego your cut of the money."

"Very well, then. What?"

Both cheeks, which had always a serene, ivory glow, had been heated to a blaze. For the last couple of minutes, he had managed to make her heart race, send chills down the spine, pump fire through her veins, and make her tremble all over without even removing his mask.

"Tell me, where are you keeping the Vicomte de Chagny?"

Her eyes widened. "Say that again."

"_Where are you keeping the Vicomte de Chagny_?"

At last, fear had given way. And Erik, slightly reposed in the chair, feeling drunk on vengeance, branded her memory with a ruthless smile. A chuckle rumbling low in the throat.

"Expect a great misfortune, disaster beyond imagination," he murmured, "if you or your master dare hurt her."

Unable to tear her eyes from his face, Isadora scrambled less than gracefully from her seat. Though she remembered her gloves, one fell on her way through and out the front door; she couldn't have been more afraid to turn back for it if she were to turn to a pillar of salt.

* * *

Patience was a virtue lost to her for the last five minutes. With patience, Christine's appetite was just as hopelessly gone. Some people, more clever and experienced, possessed an enviable ability to read lips. But even with such a talent, there were too much movement and too many people passing and blocking the way. Erik's face was angled as to where she could guess nothing that he said to her. Her reactions, however, could not have been more vivid.

Smart and cognizant, the woman had been poised. With pleasure she watched Erik's slow, persistent, penetrating methods on her. Then, to be rendered speechless and fleeing from her own table, Christine was being shaken to the core by her own laughter. Both hands quickly flew to the mouth before she was loud enough to be heard.

"So, what happened? What did she say?" As soon as Erik reappeared, Christine practically charged him.

"Did you watch?"

"I saw everything. Did it work?"

Erik chuckled. "Yes, I told her, with great misrepresentation."

_What a relief I can trust you_, she mused, _to have you for an ally_.

**Unlike other chapters before, what did you think, of seeing Erik open up a little? And the transition from vulnerable to vengeful?**

**Don't worry though. While it seems Isadora talked too much, they don't know everything yet. There will be plenty trouble to come with future chapters.**


	10. 10: Sabotage

~Chapter Ten: Sabotage~

The tray had been sitting cold for the last fifteen minutes. Nadir Khan managed only to nibble at the servings of dinner before him. Until Erik returned, everything inside stirred to his contentions. What he had eaten from lunch, even, churned about noxiously within. Erik had been doing things never done before. It should've made him, as his friend, happy at last. How long the older man had struggled against his strong will, trying to push him into socializing, dining out, outdoor walks during the day. And to know his friend were enjoying the company of a woman would have pleased Nadir.

Once Erik returned to his room next door, he let a few minutes pass before making the venture over.

"We learned a great deal," apprised Erik.

"Do I take that as a good thing? It must be if you're smiling," said Nadir. The narration continued, with Erik undoing the cravat and unbuttoning his tight-cuffed wrists.

"I know longer am taking Christine's word for things. The charming Mlle. Isadora is involved in all this; she's deep in it."

"So, did she say anything about the missing husband?"

"She would not confirm that, no. I merely approached her and represent myself as someone who works for her accomplice."

"You did what? Erik, what do you think you're doing!"

"It was a bit of a shot in the dark, but it was just to the point. She's taking orders from this other, a significant other. I told her that I was hired by her partner because he suspects she's plotting against him."

"And she fell for that?"

"Not at first, she didn't. She may not have signed the guestbook, but she knew about it. I didn't tell you, did I, when I came back before going to dinner?"

"Tell me what?" demanded Nadir.

"Someone did forge Christine's signature in the guestbook. That's what I tried to get out of the lady. She said she had nothing to do with it. It was her partner that signed, by Christine's maiden name."

"Wait, wait, that doesn't make any sense, Erik. If she knows he signed in the guestbook, how did this whole ruse hold up?"

"Because I told her that he signed under the couple's name as de Chagny, and that someone removed that page from the book, then re-signed by Daaé."

"And what, that worked?"

"It seemed to have the intended effect," grinned Erik. "She certainly did not expect that. In fact, the thought of someone else frightened her."

"How did you confirm it a forgery?"

"That's a long story."

"Am I correct in guessing that taking Christine out this morning and then late into the afternoon-had anything to do with this amateur investigation you're conducting?"

An answer could be determined from the faint color that appeared in Erik's face. Even the eyes, the unwillingness to respond, was bashful. "Our walking was purely leisure," he shrugged.

"Those houses you were looking at-was that too just part of the excuse of inviting her along?"

"Not everything is as it appears, Daroga."

"If you say so, my friend. . . But Erik, whatever you told Isadora, that story is not going to stand for long."

"Of course. I knew that going in. Just before she left the restaurant, she knew perfectly well that I had just played her. The whole object was to get information."

"Oh, that was smart," retorted Nadir. "So, she could go to the police now-"

"She wouldn't do that. Telling the police about our conversation would expose her to questions about herself and this accomplice of hers. When I asked her about the Vicomte's whereabouts, that was the end of it."

"This may not bode well for Miss Daaé."

"Let me see to that."

"What did you advise her? Because, I am sure, of course, you want her to remain here."

"On the contrary." Erik dropped into a chair for the removal of his shoes, putting himself in a position to be scolded by the Persian man still standing. "Whatever my wishes, I suggested to Christine that she check out of the hotel, and perhaps stay elsewhere in Perros. She wouldn't have it. She's convinced that she must be here to keep up the search for her husband."

"Wouldn't it be wiser, Erik, if you start reporting your findings to M. Miford?"

"And what is he supposed to do about it? What would he do? The man was not effective the last time he came and searched."

". . . Look, to be honest, I'm not entirely convinced that your little friend from #10 should be left to her own devices. Now, you may have a point. You may have a hunch-"

"You were _not _at the table!"

"Well, Mlle. Braspuissant may be partly responsible for this whole mess. She may. But who is to say that this girl, Christine, is not playing some kind of game with us. I know we've been through this-"

"Did I ask you to repeat yourself?"

"This whole thing is just really strange, Erik! Now please, understand this. You are a free citizen of France. I am not. If I cannot live in this country as an upstanding citizen, I don't go to prison; _I am exiled back to Persia_."

"What are you worried about? Nadir, this has nothing to do with you, so long as-"

"So long as I stay out of it," finished the Persian. "Erik, I can't! I represent all your business dealings, your travel arrangements, contracts, and any personal affairs attached to you."

"There is a solution," retorted Erik.

"And you'd love that, wouldn't you?"

"Why not? You can live without me."

"It's you that can't live without me. I go, I take Darius too. You'll be on your own. You'd be making all your phone calls, arranging all your appointments, getting on trains all on your own. That means going out into public and seeing people. I do all that because I am your face."

". . ."

"I-I'm sorry." His head shook and throat constricted with a swallow. Both hands had settled on his hips. "I didn't mean that. . ."

"Most of it."

"Erik, I can't stay out of this. As your agent and your friend, I am not of the opinion that girl will make you happy."

Throughout the silences and awkward strain of sentences to his friend's ranting, those long hours of the day, the hour and a half spent at dinner returned to Erik's mind. Certain little phrases stood out. Little gestures, things Christine may have thought nothing of-he cherished it. Especially dear to him was how she didn't pry, like most people. She detected when her questions were making him uncomfortable. When the pain showed with him, there was sympathy in return. Erik failed to pass off the childhood he invented; she had perceived the truth from it.

'You are a peculiar woman, Christine. Too kind. . .'

'No more than you have been, Erik.'

Returning to the earlier half of the day, her voice still lingered with him. It was a cool breeze in a hot room and a fiery flame on the cold's night. In her was that unknown thing that Erik had always felt missing in his music.

"I. . ." His span of attention to his friend's own calling had run out. No insults toward her or warnings about her could reach the poor man.

"Erik?"

Nadir repeated himself a couple times more, desperately hoping to snap his friend from this self-induced daze. Even once Nadir succeeded, a disoriented, puzzled sort of expression clouded Erik's face. Nothing broke it until the shattering ring of the telephone. Erik bounded for it, as if it were expected.

"Hello."

"Erik, it's Christine," her shuddery voice met him.

"Are you alright?"

"Something else has happened. I hate to bother you-"

"Do you want me to come?"

"M-Mme. Giry is on her way up and-"

"Do you want me to come?" he repeated, a little more pleadingly.

"_Please_."

Nadir's head drooped and eyes rolled.

* * *

Another investigation was commenced with Christine's multiple calls of alarm, to the housekeeper, to the managers, and to Erik. Of course, all the commotion in the hallway drew an audience from neighboring rooms. Once again, groans sounded as the girl had managed to create fresh disturbance. Erik entered in as Christine was relating the new developments to a wearied and irritated M. Debienne. The manager had already donned his nightgown, then proceeded to throw a robe over when called up. Mme. Giry hardly seemed in a better state.

Several trunks had been opened. Christine had already turned back the covers of the bed. By the look of things, she had not noticed anything out of place until just then. Wrung with nerves, her hands clutched the fringes of her robe in front.

"I don't believe this," muttered M. Debienne.

"I'm telling you the truth, monsieur," insisted Christine.

"How could you expect to take lodgings here without any money?"

"But I told you, I had money. It's been stolen!"

"How long have you been here so far? Three days?"

"Yes."

"And you intend to stay for how long? With what, pray tell, are you going to pay your bill? for the services of staff? We cannot-"

"M. Debienne, I did not come here without money to con your business out of your services. I came here with my husband."

"Who does not exist!"

"M. Debienne," Mme. Giry interrupted, "have a care what you say. This young lady is still a guest. This is a misunderstanding."

"Is it?"

"Have you noticed anything else out of place since coming in?" asked Erik of Christine.

"No. I was practically ready for bed, and I checked on something in one of my bags. That was when I saw someone had taken my purse."

"How much did you have?"

"About twenty-five francs."

"You couldn't rent a room one day in this establishment for twenty-five francs," snapped M. Debienne. "Ever since you've come, strange things have been going on. And I've about had it with it. Where is your husband? Where is the money that shall pay for you?"

"I am so very _sorry _for you, monsieur, that your business is suffering. But I should very much like to find out why all this happening, just as badly as you. As a patron here, are you not responsible for everyone's wellbeing and property? Since being under your roof, my husband has gone missing, and now I've been robbed from out of the room you've rent out to me. It is your responsibility to be concerned."

"What do you want? You want to bring back M. Miford? Hmm? You want to barge through every guest room all over again and look for your money?"

"It's either a guest or someone of your staff."

"Mademoiselle!"

"You would be obliged to do the same for any other guest, monsieur," defended Erik. As the man's face had flushed a bright red, he moved to stand in between him and Christine. Causing her such offense, Erik's fist tightened and readied to meet the jaw of the ignorant manager. Fortunately, both men were sensible enough that physical defense was unnecessary. "If you do not make any efforts to recover madame's personal property, I believe those are grounds for lawsuit against your business."

"What say have you in this, M. Destler? This is between myself and the lady."

"Not anymore."

"M. Debienne, can we just let this go and recommence tomorrow morning?" suggested Mme. Giry. "This is a matter we must see to; you cannot fight it."

"I won't have this, I won't take it from you, Mme. Giry! This is sabotage what's going on here-flinging slanders against management and staff, feigning madness just to get out of a bill."

"When my husband is discovered, I assure you, that he will take action for this!"

"Bring one forward, I'll be very interested to meet the poor man."

His housekeeper scowled, while his own #5 guest breathed inaudible threat. Neither stayed long. Erik had not even patience, or graciousness left to speak with Mme. Giry. With pain did he witness Christine reacting to it all, to be widowed, penniless, and insane in the same sentence. Her body quivered violently, having kept composed until they left. Without waiting for the fall of tears, Erik already took hold of her. It was becoming easier, he realized, to take such liberties in the face of her distresses.

"She did it," muttered Christine. "Her and him, whoever he is-"

"Shhh, I'm so sorry for this."

"How am I supposed to find Raoul if I can't be here? Now, I can't be here if they know I cannot pay."

"Don't think of it. I'll handle that issue tomorrow."

"But Erik-"

"Please, Christine."

She sniffled. "I couldn't ask that of you."

"What else could you do?" He was right, and on that argument, he won. But it made her loathe, disgusted to be put in a position of someone's mercy. It quite embarrassed her enough to think what Raoul would be spending on her for a honeymoon. To be indebted to a stranger, or better yet a friend, nearly had her falling before his knees.

"When t-this is all over," she resolved, "please, tell me whatever expenses you covered. Please, Erik. I will repay you as soon as I can-"

"Christine-"

"With interest."

"I don't care!" a little too harshly answered. "Christine, you should care less about that. I am worried about you being here. Let me find you another place to stay here in Perros. It wouldn't be difficult, just so long as you are out of here and away from whoever is doing this."

"You don't understand!"

"You can still continue your search, and I would help you."

"No, Erik, I must-

"Why?"

"_How else could Raoul reach me if he needed to_?"

". . . What?"

Though it didn't explain for anything, someone about her sounded like a confession. Erik had not expected secrecy with her. A pain knifed him just short of the heart, similar to the feeling of betrayed.

"Is there something you haven't told me?" he demanded. "Christine?"

"Raoul wrote me one note. The night before. . . H-He informed me was alive and well, at least for now. He said we were in grave danger, but it would be a mistake to try and leave the hotel. And. . ."

"And?"

"He told me not to trust anyone."

"Well, that would account for your wild imagination, calling me a murderer."

"I am sorry for this morning."

"Why should your husband leave you a note like that and offer no explanation?" he started on her. "And why should he care where you are if his wife is indeed in peril? He shouldn't be concerned for himself; the boy ought to be telling you to run and get away."

Only seeing the coldness in her eyes did Erik regret the words too late to take back. "You do not know Raoul. Please, do not presume to judge him. He's hardly a boy, but a man, a man I love and care for very much."

"I. . . I'm sorry. I just forget."

"Do you forget that I am married?"

_You can't know_, he thought. _Have I been so obvious? Do you see my heart as clearly as Nadir? It's no wonder you find me repulsive._

"Erik, I am in your debt. I appreciate what you've done, really. It has been very reassuring to have you and your eyes at my aid. But I am not a little girl anymore. You are not my keeper. I mean to take care of myself, and if Raoul has reason to, I will choose whom I will and will not trust. I don't see why you would be entitled to know everything, if I choose to withhold information from you. It's my affair."

No reply.

"Please, I don't mean to be unkind. But I just had to say it."

"Well, now you've said it," he replied stoically. "And you've put me in my place. I beg your pardon for relieving burdens that are not my own, without permission-"

"Erik."

"I wish you good evening, Mme. de Chagny."

* * *

Both roses sat in a tall glass on the vanity, one bare and the other tied in its black ribbon. It seemed sacrilege somehow, to put both flowers in the same water, side by side. One from Raoul, one from Erik. Away from the window, their vivid color was in the shadow. Christine could scarce make them out in the dark, but nevertheless, they kept her awake for the long, miserable hours of night.

Tears had been wrung from her through the past several hours. Just as she exhausted herself and calmed, Erik's bitter last words replayed again. More and more still managed to burst forth once she had dried her face. If it were during the day, she'd have gladly picked up the phone to dial his room. It was considered; he had told her so, himself, to call should she need anything. And she did need. _You didn't deserve it. I didn't mean to repay you this way, such goodness for thoughtless things! _mused Christine. _What do I know? What am I? I am a child. I'm surrounded by strangers, and someone is after Raoul. He and that awful woman-they're after me too. What can I do? 'It has been very reassuring to have you and your eyes at my aid.' Insolence! Insolent, ungrateful child!_ A simple apology and 'I forgive you' from Erik's side would've been sufficient, enough consolation to let her eyes finally rest. But she refused to bring herself to it. The man had been given enough trouble and tolerated her enough for one day.

Christine lay back into her pillow, with her face up and both hands crossed over her stomach. It may have been useless, but she would try again. Her father had gotten her to sleep many times with the method: 'Pretend you are asleep, and you'll be out without even knowing it.' _Easy enough with children, but again, I am a child. It shouldn't be hard_. Five minutes lapsed in this false slumber.

Then, a crash.

It seemed to come from directly above. She bolted straight up, full alert and listening. No other sound seemed to accompany it. Accidents do happen. Yet, what was strange, she heard no noises besides it. It didn't seem as if someone dropped it, then scurried to clean up the mess. There was no thud, if perhaps someone had passed out and dropped unconscious to the floor. Wasting no time, the sound was immediately investigated.

Walking on her toes and slipping up the stairs, Christine stalked between each door of the third storey rooms. Of particular interest, Room #17. At two-fifteen in the morning, there was nothing but silence behind each door. What should have been expected? Surprisingly enough, Christine discovered she alone had heard this noise. Whatever it was, something glass or porcelain, it had disturbed no one else. Rooms nineteen and twenty, supposedly unoccupied, she tried listening at too. Both were locked.

Since no one heard or cared, no one else came out with her, she carefully ventured back downstairs. _Maybe it was outside. But it came from up above. How did no one else here? Nobody else on the second storey heard it either. Unless_. . . It wasn't a strange possibility. Anxious, restless, and still raw from crying, it could have been a dream. But dreams never repeat themselves, after one wakes, then returning directly back to sleep.

Two thirty-five, read the bedside clock. A second crashing sound came again.

And just like the first time, no one woke. Whoever responsible for it made no commotion above her. I am dreaming. It's just a dream. Just a dream. . .

A third one came! This one struck at three o'clock. Still, nobody else responded to it. How can I keep dreaming if I'm awake? Or am I awake? If that's so, then this is not good. This is terrible! This would be a hallucination.

* * *

Mme. Giry rolled over with a groan at the rattling of her nightstand. The house phone sounded. Normally, it woke her immediately and she responded. Instead, she pressed a hand to her forehead, to the bridge of her nose and pinched between her eyes.

"Meg. . ." she yawned. "Marguerite, the phone. . ."

"Maman. . ." Meg yawned back.

"Your turn." That was all her excuse.

Across the room, her daughter staggered half asleep from her own cot. Her eyes had barely opened, and without bothering to turn on a light, it took a little groping to actually find the phone.

"Housekeeping," answered Meg.

"Meg, Meg, is that you?"

"Mmm. . . Christine?"

"I'm sorry to wake you. Something's going on upstairs. I don't know what."

"Upstairs?"

"On the third floor. I don't know what it is, Meg. I'm hearing what sounds like shattering glass. I was thinking either someone tripped and fell, or someone is fighting. I went up to check on it once, but no one else is hearing it except me."

"I don't understand. What do you want me to do?"

"Will you upstairs, or your mother? Meg, I've heard this sound four times over the past two hours."

"If no one else hears it-"

"Meg. . ." muttered Christine, her voice straining. Only then did the young maid begin to wake and actually comprehend.

"Are. . . Are you sure? Christine, are you sure you didn't just hear things. . . I mean-"

"That's what I'm afraid of. Meg, please come up."

". . . I'm on my way."

* * *

"Where do you think it would be coming from?" asked Meg.

"It sounded like the room directly above mine," replied Christine.

"Room nineteen?"

"I believe so. Eighteen or nineteen."

"There shouldn't be anyone in there."

Regardless of the consequence, slipping out with her mother's set of keys, Meg boldly took the liberty and unlocked the two vacant guestrooms. What was to be expected, there was no guesses from either side. Four shattered vases? If a tree falls in the forest, it makes a sound. Four fragile things that fall to the floor, however, is questionable if no one hears it. Investigating nineteen, the room overhead on Christine's side, had not been touched. Perhaps the only breakable item inside would be the porcelain ewer and washbowl sitting on the vanity. Both these vessels remained in tact.

"This can't be," whispered Christine. "Check eighteen."

"I can't, Christine. Ubaldo Piangi is in that one."

"Well, how about twenty. That room's not taken, is it?"

"I can try, but honestly, I don't see how anyone else could-"

"Meg, please, let me be sure."

Well over twenty-four hours ago, the same pair had been going through the same routine of scouring the vacancies. Raoul seemed nearly forgotten for the time being; finding broken porcelain took precedence. To walk away disappointed, disproved a second time, the situation was more than embarrassing. Christine could not even meet with Meg's eyes. Both her hands were wringing together, in the same state of agitation as her own stomach.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" asked Meg, gently.

"I. . . want to see the other rooms next to mine."

"Besides that, Christine. I can't do that, during night or day."

"Something strange is going on here, Meg. If I heard that crashing sound only once, I'd admit I may have dreamt it. But not four times in one night."

"But there's no one in the empty rooms. If there was someone there, they'd have to have unlocked the door."

"Does anyone have keys besides your mother or the managers?"

"All members of staff have keys, but not to the guestrooms. Only my mother can open guestrooms with these ones."

"I've got to find someway-"

"Christine, you cannot go into any of these taken rooms. You could get yourself evicted from the premises. Honestly, I would help you, I'd gladly do it, but doing that, I could get myself fired, maybe Maman too."

"You believe me, don't you, Meg? I didn't dream it. I heard it, truly. You do believe, don't you? Please. . ."

"I. . ."

"Please, say you believe me."

From behind them, someone's doorknob turned. Darting out of sight, ducking back into Room #20, Meg was left curiously alone and suspicious-looking in the corridor. As it would turn out, to her greatest humiliation, number sixteen opened. The Baron de Barbazac leaned out his door, clothed in a long nightshirt. Both his face and voice were still limp from coming out of deep sleep just seconds ago.

"Monsieur le Baron, I. . . um-" Meg swallowed.

"Is there a problem? Oh, Meg!" he gasped, but still in a whisper. "I mean-Mlle. Giry. Is something wrong?"

"Well. . . actually, I uh. . . heard something up here a few minutes ago. Just came to look at the empty rooms."

"What exactly?" As it was her and not some other housemaid, the baron discreetly concealed himself more behind the door. His face, like hers, a little warm.

"I thought I heard a crash, like glass breaking. Have you, by chance, heard anything?"

". . . I'm sorry, I can't say I have. Only just now, I heard you. Are you alone?"

"What?"

"Thought I heard a second voice, besides yours."

"Apparently, I must have woken up someone else," she shrugged, her tongue tripping.

"You certainly have." Just the voice she had feared had come up from the staircase. Meeting the young man and woman in a rather awkward, almost compromising situation, her mother chanced upon them. "What seems to be the issue here?" The older woman's eyes beat viscously on the face of the baron.

"Mlle. Giry is merely doing her duties," he begged excuse for her. "I just happened to hear. Honestly-"

"Beg your pardon for this disturbance, M. le Baron," Mme. Giry interrupted. "It will not happen again, I trust?"

"N-No, madame."

Meg's heart beat with hammering thuds. The passed notes between them had yet to be forgiven. Now this. With the man closing the door behind him, nodding apologetically, a great desire to scream burned within her.

"Maman, this is not what you think-"

"Marguerite Giry," hissed madame.

"I didn't-It wasn't him that called-"

"What reason have you to be up here in the guest quarters?"

"I. . . Well, there were noises coming from up here-"

"Did you open Room #20?"

"I was trying to find out where the noises came from, that's all." Awaiting no further explanation, the keys were snatched from Meg's trembling hands. "What are you doing?"

"Damage control."

"Maman, no!"

"Keep your voice down, foolish child. These doors are to be locked."

"But Maman-"

"Meg!"

"But you can't-"

"Enough of this. Enough."

". . ."

"Now, you be off back to bed this instant. If anything like this happens again, I'll have two weeks of your wages revoked. Understood?"

"But, just listen. I-"

"Go, go on."

For as great as Meg's horror could be, being forced to walk away and leave Christine locked in #20-it could not compare with the torment of an interminable nightmare: losing a husband without a trace, being surrounded by liars, being watched coming and going, having money stolen from her own room, and now locked inside without a key.

**Part of the plot of this chapter came from an old movie with Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, and Joseph Cotton. A dozen roses for the readers who can guess the movie.**

**So, you think Christine is starting to go a little crazy hearing things? Though it's Meg's fault, I am sorry for writing her looking like a babbling fool and incompetent friend.**

**Any input will be helpful. Roses or tomatoes, whatever you got, please review. Actually, if I could have an opinion from you readers, I need some fuel for inspiration for an upcoming chapter. Have you any suggestions? How would you describe a perfect date? I have things in mind, but what about you?**


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